WAR  AND 
LAUGHTER 


WAR  AND 
LAUGHTER 


BY 

JAMES  OPPENHEIM 

AUTHOR  OF  "SONGS  FOR  THE  NEW  AGE" 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Published,  October,  1916 


CONTENTS 
MORNING 

PAGE 

Morning  and  1 5 

On  Morning  Hills 7 

Larkspur    8 

Good-Morning    10 

The  Red  Month 12 

NOON 

The    Snare 19 

Quick  as  a  Hummingbird 24 

No  End  of  the  Song 25 

Behind  the  Mirror 26 

Love-Songs    27 

NIGHT 

When  Night  Is  Still 31 

The  Coming  of  Evening 34 

New  Year's  Eve 37 

LAUGHTER 

Laughter    41 

The    Greatest 48 

To   Nietzsche 49 

Report  on  the  Planet,  Earth 50 

Immoral     55 

Creed 57 

A    Funeral 66 

Said  the  Sun..  68 


Contents 


PAGE 

The  Uninspired  Laborer 69 

East  and  West 70 

The  Wise 77 

City  of  Myself 78 

Earth-Bound 81 

The  Weak  Shall  Fail 82 

Symbols 83 

The  Planetary  Animals 84 

Old  Sorrow 85 

"Man,  Born  of  Woman" 87 

Two  Musics 93 

A  Girl  in  the  Subway 94 

The  Outdoor  Motion  Picture  Show 95" 

Woods  96 

The  Centaur 99 

The  Gray  Mothers 101 

Steps  of  the  Sky 103 

The  Encircling 104 

The  Adventurer 107 

RHYMES 

Sonnets    113 

What  Sings  the  Earth  ? 125 

Sun-Down   127 

Rise,  for  the  Day 128 

Tryst  with  the  Sea 130 

WAR 

1914 — And  After 135 

Out ! 150 

Dancing  Boys 151 

Earth's  Laughter 152 

The  New  God 153 

Slums 169 

A  Wise  Woman 171 

Under  the  Bell 174 


Contents 


PAGE 

Jottings   175 

The  Unripened  Old 178 

The  Wine-Bowl 179 

In  the  Furnished  Room  House 180 

In  the  Subway 181 

The  Bugle  Call 182 

Shine,  Lights  o'  London , .  183 

Sun-Up    184 

Spring's  Orchestra 185 

The  Discord 187 

Among  Enemies 188 

The  Boy 190 

Dangerous    Days 191 

Girl  on  the  Street 192 

In  What  Places  Apart 193 

Adventures  in  Darkness 194 

March  Night 203 

Peace    205 

GOLDEN  DEATH 
Golden  Death 209 

THE  FUTURE 
The   Future    215 


WAR  AND 
LAUGHTER 


MUSICAL  PIECES 

i — SONGS  OF  THE  MORNING 
2 — SONGS  OF  NOON 
3 — SONGS  OF  NIGHT 


MORNING 


MORNING  AND  I 

HEN  the  corn  is  full  of  glory  from  the  wind- 


Morning,  the  blue-caped  singer, 

Crosses  his  legs  on  the  hills,  and  with  sun-eye  wink 

ing, 
Sings  me  this  song: 

Young  laggard  ! 

Why  laugh  as  you  loaf  alone  in  the  garden? 

Why  laugh? 

It  Js  five  o'clock,  and  no  one  Js  up: 

Saving,  of  course,  the  chicks, 

Saving,  of  course,  the  calves  .  .  . 

No  one  's  up, 

Why  laugh  as  you  loaf  alone  in  the  garden? 

I  pick  a  seckel  pear  from  the  grass, 

Bite  it,  and  wink  back  slowly  at  laughing  Morning, 

And  looking  careless, 

Sing  him  this  stave: 


an&  f 


Old  Lover: 

I   laugh   because   of   a   mighty   secret   that's 

mine  .  .  . 
That 's  why  .  .  . 

Is  it  five  o'clock?     Then  let  it  be  ... 
Let  the  chicks  go  pecking  the  corn, 
And  the  calves  go  cropping  the  grass  .  .  . 
Am  I  alone? 
Oh,   only  alone  with  a  mighty  secret  that's 

mine  .  .  . 

, 

Then  Morning  bursts  out  laughing :  twenty  birds  are 

startled  to  song  .  .  . 
And  he  and  I  in  the  silence 
Wink  once  again  to  each  other  .  .  . 
Had  n't  he  been  blowing  kisses  to  Earth  millions  of 

years  before  I  was  bom? 


On  /ftorntng  trtlte 


ON  MORNING  HILLS 

FLASH  of  all  sunny  loveliness, 
Dance  of  the  larkspur, 
Dance  of  the  larkspur  .  .  . 

(Nod,  little  bells, 

Tease  the  vagrant  honey-plunderers, 
Lufe  the  tiger-bellied  bees  .  .  .) 

Wind  laughs:  I  laugh: 

Off,  countryside,  be  off  on  a  gale, 

And  the  odors  of  the  garden 

Blow,  spiced  and  cool,  like  honey  on  my  lips 

Flash  of  blue  heavens  and  the  hawk  lost 
Lonely  in  the  blue, 
Flash  of  green  hill-tops  and  the  cattle 
Fenced  in  the  fields  .  .  . 
Flash  of  all  sunny  loveliness: 
Wind  laughs:  I  laugh: 
For  the  cool  laughter  echoes 
Of  my  love  in  the  cool  silent  house. 

7 


OLarfespur 


LARKSPUR 

BLUE  morning  and  the  beloved, 
The  hill-garden  and  I  ... 

Blue  morning  and  the  beloved, 
Leaning,  laughing  and  plucking, 
Plucking  wet  roses  .  .  . 

(She  among  the  roses, 
I  among  the  larkspur, 

Bob-white,  warbler,  meadowlark,  bobolink, 
Song,  sun, 
And  still  morning  air.) 

I  snipped  off  a  larkspur  blossom  of  china-blue 

And  held  it, 

A  blossom  against  the  sky  .  .  . 

And  heaven  opened  out 
In  one  small  flower-face  . 


8 


Xarfcspur 


And  the  beloved, 

Plucking  roses,  plucking  roses,  old-fashioned  roses, 

Lifted  her  face 

With  eyes  of  china-blue. 

(She  among  the  roses, 
I  among  the  larkspur, 

Bee-hum,   brown-mole,   downy  chick,   hum 
mingbird  : 
Light,  dew, 
And  laughter  of  my  love.) 


GOOD-MORNING 

ARROW-SUN! 

•**  Morning,  the  bold  young  giant 
Sticks  you  in  his  bent  bow  of  shining  blue 
And  shoots  you  toward  the  zenith  .  .  . 

(This  way,  Wind,  forget-me-nots  are  little : 
Stoop  and  uplift  them  .  .  . 
Come   up,    Mole,   from   your  subterranean 

plunder, 

The  juicy  tulip  roots  .  .  . 
Dew   along   the   gossamer,   twinkle   in   the 

garden-grass  .  .  . 
For  one  is  coming  hither, 
One  is  coming  hither, 
The  darling  of  the  morn  .  .  .) 

She  comes:  in  the  doorway  I  see  her  .  .  . 

She  steps  out, — Good-morning! 

My  rival,  the  gale,  is  ahead  of  me,  kissing  her 

lips  .  .  . 

Arrow-sun  from  the  heaven  darts 

10 


Confusing  with  gold  her  glance  .  .  , 
Bee  thinks  her  lips  are  a  rose-bud: 
Brush  him  off,  darling  .  .  . 
And  come,  come  hither  .  .  . 
I  know  an  angle  in  the  fence 
Where  lovers  may  say  good-morning. 


11 


Ube  IRefc  flDontb 


THE  RED  MONTH 

i 

OLDEN  morning— 

'  Hello!  hello! 
Echoes  of  song — the  meadowlark  twittering, 
Spill  of  the  swallow. 


Dance  on  the  slopes  of  bright  dew,  and  come  singing, 

Beloved  girl  .  .  . 

On  the  grass  red  with  apples,  come  dancing,  come 

running  .  .  . 

Hark,  how  the  thrush  sings! 
Mark,  how  the  wind  leaps! 
Morning  is  here, 
Bold  morning  is  here. 

3 

Come  across  the  grasses, 
Come  swift  across  the  grasses, 

12 


ZTbe  IRefc  dDontb 


Quicker ! 

quicker ! 

leap  with  your  hands  up: 
Dance  with  knees  up, 
Gold  hair  flying, 
White  teeth  bare  .  .  . 

4 

For  we  shall  go  laughing  straight  through  the  or 
chard  and  scatter 

Dew  lit  with  sun, 

And  we  shall  go  romping  beneath  green  boughs  low 
with  apples 

And  over  the  stone-wall, 

Scrambling  through  briers, 

Race  in  the  woods — the  wind-loud  woods — 

The  woods  with  the  dead  leaves  flying  .  .  . 

v  5 

Your  cheeks,  beloved,  are  fresher  than  pansies  to 

the  touch, 
Dewy  pansies  .  .  . 
Pluck  handfuls  of  wild  grapes, 
And  here  Js  a  grape  for  you, 
And  here  's  a  grape  for  me — 

13 


IRefc  flDontb 


Tart, 

sharp, 

to  crush  against  the  palate, 
Staining  red  lips  blue  .  .  . 


The  thrush — is  he  up? 

The  mole — peers  he  forth? 

Is  the  young  dog  running  in  the  scent  of  the  squirrel  ? 

Who  has  washed  the  heavens  blue 

And  set  the  sun  there? 

O  make  a  cup  of  your  hands  and  in  the  clearing 

Catch  cups  of  sunshine,  loveliest,  for  me  ... 


And  come  now  in  coolness  where  the  thin  stream 

tinkles, 

And  the  brown  wren  dips  her  wings  .  .  . 
O  my  beautiful! 

Come  now  and  gathered  be  all  in  an  armful, 
Under  leafy  oak-boughs,  here  where  the  wasps  sing, 
O  my  beautiful ! 

Kiss  my  lips  and  let  me  know 
That  the  ripe  month — the  red  month — 
September  the  glorious, 

H 


1Re&  flDontb 


Has  tapped  the  gold-wine  of  the  sun 
And  sluiced  it  into  our  hearts  .  .  . 
And  piped  it  into  our  hearts,  darling 
So  happy,  happy  are  we. 


8 


And  hark !  the  warbler ! 
He  whistles!  whistles! 
This  kiss,  and  this  kiss ! 
Golden  morning! 
Hello!  hello! 


NOON 


Ube  Snare 


THE  SNARE 

OLD  songs  snared  me  back, 
Echoes  of  a  woman's  voice  heard  in  the  misty 

luminous  morning  of  my  life, 
The  smell  of  warm  new  milk, 
And  of  apples  turning  to  cider  on  the  ground, 
And  I  was  lured  by  the  light  that  a  hummingbird 

shook  from  his  wings, 

There  among  the  honeysuckle,  there  among  the  yel 
low  fragrance  .  .  . 
And  the  brooding  and  hot  sunlight  that  slanted  with 

dancing  motes  in  my  top-floor  room, 
And  I  was  afraid  of  a  big  black  dog, 
And  afraid  of  death, 
And  shrieked  "Mother"  . 


She  was  the  love-woman:  my  Mother  .  .  . 
The  little  child  found  her  his  nourishing  Earth, 
His  stars  of  dream,  his  sun  of  passion  .  .  . 
She  was  religion:  she  was  God  .  .  . 
Long  and  long  she  folded  me  in  her  soul, 

19 


ttbe  Snare 


And  there  I  wandered, 
In  a  snare  of  old  songs. 

And  there  became  two  of  me  after  that: 

An  outer  and  inner  self: 

A  world-self  passing  for  a  man, 

But  in  me  I  bore  the  little  child  who  would  not 

grow  up  ... 

And  when  the  blows  of  the  world  beat  on  me, 
And  I  ate  of  the  sour  bread  of  disillusionment, 
And  swallowed  the  gall  of  frustration, 
I  sank  deep,  deep  into  my  soul, 
A  little  child  again, 
In  a  snare  of  old  songs, 
And  the  smell  of  new  warm  milk, 
And  the  arms  of  my  love-woman,  my  Mother,  folded 

about  me  ... 

No  woman's  face  could  please  me  among  women, 
And  I  could  not  love  as  a  man  loves : 
For  I  was  seeking  among  women  my  Mother, 
Who  was  a  myth  out  of  childhood,  and  a  legend 
sundered  from  life. 

And  a  sweet  woman  and  a  young  waited  me  at  the 
door, 

20 


Snare 


And  a  struggle  began  in  my  soul : 
Whether  I  should  love  her  as  a  man, 
Or  love  her  as  a  child. 

I  kissed  her  lips  .  .  . 

(Ah,  when  did  I  dream  that  kisses  could  be  so  sweet, 
so  sweet?) 

I  gathered  her  in  my  arms, 

And  beheld  swimming  across  her  blue-eyed  counte 
nance 

A  light  as  of  heavens  opening  .  .  . 

A  light  I  had  never  seen  .  .  . 

It  was  the  love-light  ...  it  was  the  love-light  .  .  . 

And  my  soul  arose  to  love, 

When  lo, 

Old  songs  snared  me  back, 

The  smell  of  warm  new  milk, 

And  the  arms  of  my  love-woman,  my  Mother,  folded 

about  me  ... 
Passion  died: 
Yea,  though  my  soul  wept,  passion  died  .  .  . 

And  I  knew  that  the  hour  of  the  sacrifice  had  come, 
The  hour  of  the  slaying  of  the  child, 

21 


ITbe  Snare 


When  my  own  soul  must  slay  the  sweet  child  within 

me, 

And  overcome  my  Mother, 
Freeing  the  man. 

I  must  put  away  from  me  the  snare  of  old  songs, 
And  the  echoes  of  the  luminous  early  days, 
Hummingbird   radiance   and  the   scent   of  honey 
suckle, 

And  slaughter  my  God  on  a  crucifying  Cross, 
And  unloose  my  love-woman's  arms  so  tightly,  di 
vinely  binding  me  in  ... 

And  I  must  meet  the  world  face  to  face, 

And  grow  tougher  than  its  blows, 

And  mightier  than  its  besieging  hosts, 

And  give  myself  to  new  vague  songs  of  reality  .  .  . 

And  I  must  come  from  under  the  wings  of  this  beau 
tiful  woman  .  .  . 

And  when  I  run  for  comfort  and  help,  I  must  run  to 
my  own  self  .  .  . 

Free  even  from  her  that  I  love  .  .  . 

22 


ZTbe  Snare 


And  I  must  go  down  to  the  darkness  of  the  waters  of 

my  Soul, 

And  make  a  secret  struggle, 
Of  which  I  can  tell  no  man  .  .  . 
Down  there  the  sacrifice  is  made  .  .  . 
Down  there  the  child  is  slain  .  .  . 

What  breaks  in  my  heart,  breaks  open? 
What  wild  light?  what  plunging  seas? 
What  hardy  odor  of  the  balsams  on  the  peak? 
What  promise  is  this  of  a  god  in  my  soul? 
Blow,  wind,  blow  her  hair  back, 
Smite  with  your  elemental  radiance  her  eyes,  O  sun, 
Sea-salt,  quicken  her  lips, 
And  O,  great  Earth, 

Pour  your  wild  electricity  up  through  her  blood  .  .  . 
Earth  calls  to  Earth, 

The  sea-gulls  are  beginning  to  cry  in  the  gross  dark 
ness  over  the  ocean  .  .  . 
Dawn's  beginning: 
And  I  come  .  .  . 
Her  lover  comes. 


(SSluicfc  as  a 


QUICK  AS  A  HUMMINGBIRD 
UICK  as  a  hummingbird  is  my  love, 


Q 


Dipping  into  the  hearts  of  flowers — 


She  darts  so  eagerly,  swiftly,  sweetly, 
Dipping  into  the  flowers  of  my  heart  .  .  . 


of  tbe  Sona 


NO  END  OF  THE  SONG 

ROSE  of  the  hills,  hearken: 
There  is  no  end  to  my  song  of  you,  for  there 

is  no  end  to  my  love  .  .  . 

Who  shall  count  the  beauties  a  sun's  ray  falls  on? 
And  who  shall  count  the  possibilities  of  a  babe  who 

opens  his  eyes  on  a  new  planet? 
And  who  shall  count  the  songs  that  a  loved  woman 
sings  with  her  body  and  spirit  when  her  lover 
is  listening? 


Bebinfc  tbe  flDfrror 


BEHIND  THE  MIRROR 

I    LOOKED  long  into  my  love's  eyes, 
And  I  saw  in  each  a  fringe  of  the  dark  green 

hills  on  the  horizon, 

And  a  patch  of  heaven  bluer  than  their  blue, 
And  the  tint  of  a  field  was  there, 
But  in  the  center  of  each,  darker  than  the  dark  pupil, 
Sat  I  myself,  gazing  out  tranquilly  with  her  soul 
and  her  love. 


26 


LOVE-SONGS 

AA  Y  tiny  hands  not  being  able  to  weave  a  garland 
*  '  *       of  the  stars, 
I  made  curious  songs  for  my  beloved, 
To  crown  her  with. 

For  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  beloved  dwelt  in  Para 
dise, 

Somewhere  with  Beatrice  of  the  Italian  song, 
And  that  a  ring  of  stars  would  be  a  poor  enough  halo 
for  her  radiant  head. 

Ah,  but  thus  I  wronged  my  love  for  my  beloved : 
For  I  made  her  a  spirit,  and  left  the  greatest  songs 

of  all  unsung: 
The  true  love-songs  that  a  man  sings  with  his  lips, 

his  eyes,  his  flesh: 
Not  to  a  heavenly  spirit,  but  to  a  human  woman  .  .  . 

So  now  I  brush  away  Paradise  and  stars  and  curious 

songs  like  hindering  cobwebs, 
And  see  that  my  beloved  is  a  breathing  and  laughing 

and  passionate  body, 
27 


And  that  the  iris  of  her  eyes  is  blue,  and  the  pupils 
dilated  and  wonderfully  deep, 

And  that  her  lips  are  firm  and  moist  and  sweet, 

And  her  hands  grasp  tinglingly, 

And  the  skin  of  her  neck  and  shoulders  is  cool  and 
fresh, 

And  that  there  is  a  fragrance  about  her  that  is  love 
lier  to  me  than  meadows  of  sun-dried  hay, 

And  that  her  laughter  is  irresistible, 

And  that  she  in  my  arms  is  as  much  of  glory  and 
ecstasy  as  a  man  may  hold. 

Wherefore  Paradise  is  unnecessary, 

And  the  flame  of  stars  works  no  more  transforma 
tions  than  the  flame  of  her  lips  meeting  mine, 

And  the  miracle  of  her  actuality,  her  breathing  flesh, 
and  her  contact  with  me, 

Is  as  great  a  miracle  as  space  may  produce, 

And  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  a  greater. 


28 


NIGHT 


Wben  IRfsbt  is  Still 


WHEN  NIGHT  IS  STILL 


CWEET  wind 

Plays  in  the  elms, 
A  frog 
Croaks : 
Night  is  still. 


Let  us  sit  hidden,  beloved,  from  all  save  the  stars, 
And  in  the  summer  evening 
Alone — (the  others  are  gone) 
Open  our  hearts,  clinging  together, 
Our  words  like  song  in  silence  .  .  . 

3 

A  rustle  down  the  garden ! 

Is  it  she  of  the  diaphanous  raiment, 

The  rain-girl,  South-Wind, 

Slipping  bough  to  bough  and  with  quick  fingers 

Turning  every  leaf  about? 


is  Still 


She  's  stolen  every  perfume 

Of  the  garden,  the  woods, 

And  now  she  blows  your  hair  out,  love, 

With  fragrance  on  my  cheeks. 

4 

Thick  walks  of  stars ! 

Yonder 's  the  Great  Bear,  and  low  hangs  the  Dip 
per, 

Mars  burns  red;  that  is  Orion: 
I  would  I  had  the  Pleiades  to  hang  as  a  necklace 
Here  about  your  throat  .  .  . 

5 

Cool  hand  in  mine, 

Cool  arm  about  my  neck  .  .  . 

I  draw  you  close  into  my  embrace  and  press 

Cool  lips  to  cool  lips  .  .  . 

The  world  is  lost  .  .  . 

Only  a  wild  song  sings  in  our  ears,  and  a  throbbing 

Of  radiance  dazzles  our  eyes  .  .  . 

We  are  alone  .  .  .  the  others  are  gone  .  .  . 


TOlben  Wobt  is  Still 


The  gardener  has  been  hoeing  the  Earth : 

How  it  reeks ! 

The  house  is  haunted  by  its  own  emptiness ! 

It  creaks  behind  us  ... 

There  's  not  a  man  or  woman  between  here  and  the 

farm-light  faint  on  the  hills  .  .  . 
Just  Earth,  the  conferring  of  stars,  South- Wind  and 

us  . 


This  is  the  summer  night, 
And  this  is  love  .  .  . 
O  harmony  past  understanding  .  .  . 
We  are  as  one  song  sung  by  two  voices  when  the 
night  is  still. 


33 


Gomfna  of  Evening 


THE  COMING  OF  EVENING 
i 

TTAS  there  come 

*  *  Silence  of  the  snow? 

Has  there  fallen 

Silver  of  dusk  from  the  low  snow-blown  clouds 

To  fold  around  the  golden  circles  of  the  lamps'? 

Do  I  hear 

Young  girls  laughing,  boys  calling? 

O  evening  solemn, 

Solemn  Sunday  's  done : 

And  stillest  Sabbath  ends  with  chiming  of  bells, 

Church-bells, 

Bells  benignly  beating  .  .  . 


Red  houses  are  gray  in  the  dark, 

And  the  windows 

Grow  oblongs  of  yellow  .  .  . 


34 


Ube  Comtna  of 


In  snow-mist  the  city  is  hidden : 

Warm  in  the  darkness 

Families    gather    for    supper    in    light    that    is 

golden  .  .  . 
Olden 

The  charm  is: 
Glowing,  the  heart 
Opens  to  evening  .  .  . 


My  love  .  .  . 

My  own,  my  darling  .  .  . 

Far  and  far 

Are  you  .  .  . 

I  wait  ...  I  long  .  .  . 

4 

And  I  remember  now,  as  a  music 
Half-forgotten,  comes  surging  back — 
And  I  remember  now,  as  a  dream  of  childhood- 
Remember  now, 

Logs  in  hearth  and  the  gold  flames  tongueing, 
And  all  the  long  day,  all  the  long  day  hidden, 
Hidden  from  the  world, 

35 


TTbe  Coming  of  B\>entna 


We  two  there  before  the  hearth-fire  golden, 
Hand  in  hand, 

We  two  there  before  the  hearth-fire  golden, 
Cheek  to  cheek  .  .  . 

And  I  know  now  that  it  was  glorious  Sunday: 

I  know  now  we  drank  the  deep  bliss  of  loving 

I  know  now  how  far,  darling, 

Are  you  .  .  . 

How  far  .      .  how  far  and  far  . 


Church-bells  chime, 
Bells  benignly  beating 
Solemn  Sunday's  done. 


Hew  gear's 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

age  inevitably: 

The  old  joys  fade  and  are  gone: 
And  at  last  comes  equanimity  and  the  flame  burn 
ing  clear  .  .  . 

We  see  deeply  into  the  human  heart: 
Its  strange  and  terrible  desires: 
Youth's  longing,  age's  wistfulness  .  .  . 

We  seem  so  often  to  destroy  our  deepest  happiness, 
To  work  for  ourselves  cruel  pangs,  heartbreaking 

pains  .  .  . 
Misunderstanding,  misunderstood,  we  move  and  are 

moved  .  .  . 

And  he  we  despise  is  not  so  very  unlike  us. 

And  he  we  envy  may  envy  us; 

Tangled,  groping,  we  toil,  we  build,  we  hope  for 

great  and  enduring  joy, 
And  often  deceived,  find  bitterness  .  .  . 


37 


mew  gear's  Eve 


They  that  love,  part: 

They  that  are  parted,  cannot  discover  each  other: 

Disease  and  poverty,  crime  and  war,  and  a  host  of 

ills 
Mar  the  advance  .  .  . 

Who  presses  us  as  through  a  sieve  of  pain,  and  why? 
Why  this  Earth-experience?  this  unescapable  agony? 

Come,  fill  the  glass,  and  you  kiss  mine,  and  I  kiss 

yours, 

And  a  sip  of  each  other's  wine  .  .  . 
And  then  our  lips,  close  together  .  .  . 

O  my  beloved, 

For  you  alone,  if  for  nothing  else, 

My  life  is  a  miracle  .  .  . 

In  the  stormy  tangle,  the  flame  burns  clear; 

And  it  is  blessing 

To  see  so  deep  within  the  human  heart. 


LAUGHTER 


Xaugbter 


LAUGHTER 

T  SAY  Yes, 

Yes  to  the  dance  of  feet  in  the  Spring, 
Yes  to  the  shouts  of  children, 
Yes  to  Laughter! 


Laughter,  last  of  the  gods, 
And  of  them  the  greatest, 
Yes,  say  I,  and  salute  you! 

Man  's  the  bad  child  of  the  Universe  .  .  . 

I  know  that  .  .  . 

Am  I  not  a  man*? 

Wicked  is  my  wickedness :  an  impudent  girl : 

We  dance  on  the  housetops  when  the  moon  is  aloft, 

We  dance  in  the  street,  in  the  public  glare, 

But  who  knows  us?  who  sees  us? 

My  visible  feet  are  still,  and  my  face  is  solemn. 

As  Sunday  is  the  Sabbath,  a  day  of  holy  unctions, 
I  said,  I  will  go  visit  the  solemn  ones: 


Xauflbter 


They  whose  mouths  are  turned  down  at  the  comers, 

and  whose  glassy  eyes  never  wink  nor  gleam: 
I  will  visit,  not  the  worshipers  in  a  Church: 
I  will  go  visit  the  fishes  .  .  . 

Crowded  was  the  aquarium: 

On  one  side  the  glass,  the  people:  on  the  other,  the 
solemn  ones  .  .  . 

I  stood  and  marveled  at  the  miracle  of  their  grav 
ity  ... 

You  see,  they  wave  their  fins,  open  their  mouths, 

And  hang  suspended  in  bubbling  waters; 

The  circle  of  their  flat  eyes  heaves  a  little  without 

lids: 

They  are  neither  happy  nor  unhappy  .  .  . 
I  knew  they  were  fishes:  but  did  they  know  they 

were  fishes? 
No,  nor  even  that  I,  watching  them,  was  a  man! 

O  dear  old  Universe,  you  big  clumsy  giant  who  find 

a  whole  sky  too  small  to  sprawl  over, 
You  star-bellied  monster, 
Who  outstare  me  with  a  Galaxy  of  eyes, 

42 


Xaugbter 


I,  so  little,  your  least  tremor  would  crush  me  and 

my  Earth, 
I,  your  bad  child, 
Wink  at  you,  and  laugh  .  .  . 

Why  so  solemn? 

Why  such  millenniums  of  laughterless  struggle*? 

Did  you  care  only  to  increase  life, 

To  push  up  fiercely  from  Sun  into  Earth,   from 

Earth  into  animals, 
From  ape  into  man? 
Your  stars  shine,  your  waters  roar,  your  earthquakes 

quake,  and  the  noses  of  your  cats  sneeze, 
How  gravely! 

Not  that  there  is  not  sportiveness  and  joy  ... 
Surely  cubs  play,  and  the  love-season  sounds  with 

the  joy  of  the  birds, 

The  young  colts  gallop  in  the  meadow, 
The  rooster  crows, 
The  whisper  of  new  green  leaves  has  gladness  in 

it  ... 
But  when  was  joy  laughter*? 


43 


Old  Universe,  you  are  one  great  flood,  and  the  ani 
mals  are  all  under  your  waters; 

Only  Man  has  poked  his  head  up  above  the  surface, 
and  taken  a  look  around, 

And  seen  you,  and  your  children,  and  his  own  ab 
surd  self, 

And  opening  his  mouth  wide,  has  wickedly 
laughed  .  .  . 

For  Joy  is  sacred:  and  Laughter  is  wicked: 
Joy  is  inside  Life:  Laughter  is  outside: 
The  lark  sings  because  he  must, 
Man  laughs  because  he  is  free. 

Why  does  the  porpoise  jump  out  of  the  water,  and 

splash? 

A  part  of  his  solemn  business! 
But  the   folks  crowded  around  his  circular  tank, 

shook  the  roof  with  shouting  laughter  .  .  . 

Consider  us,  Creation! 

Though  you  took  patient  eras  beyond  counting  to 

create  us, 
Somehow  we  are  enough  detached  from  you,  and 

from  your  purpose, 
To  look  back,  and  laugh  .  .  . 

44 


Olauabter 


Worse  than  that! 

Consider  how  your  bad  children  get  around  you  .  .  . 

We  put  our  fingers  to  our  noses  and  wiggle  them  at 
you, 

We  make  mating  sterile, 

We  drink  alcohol, 

We  live  in  places  of  stone  and  steel, 

We  tear  our  Earth  up, 

We  float  where  we  were  meant  to  sink: 

You  think  to  darken  us  with  the  night,  so  we  light 
lamps : 

You  think  to  freeze  us  with  the  cold,  so  we  start 
fires: 

And  our  ha-ha  shakes  our  theaters  to  the  amazement 
of  dumb  heaven. 

Are  we  not  cynical,  uproarious,  obscene  and  impu 
dent? 

Do  we  not  proclaim  ourselves  the  top-notch  of  the 
world? 

Behold,  though  you  are  terrible, 
We  laugh  back,  and  treat  you,  at  best,  as  a  jolly 
comrade. 


Xauabter 


But  it 's  the  wickedest  child  that  is  the  darling  .  .  . 

We  are  your  darlings,  are  we  not"? 

Truly  now  fine  impudent  young  gods  have  risen  to 

companion  you, 
Yes,  to  transcend  you,  and  by  transcending,  bring 

you  to  new  fulfilments  .  .  . 

For  sublimity  has  bungled  .  .  . 

It  simply  spewed  out  Life,  haphazard, 

Till  by  divine  accidents,  and  out  of  the  deadliest 

purposes, 

We  were  born :  to  see :  to  know :  to  take  hold : 
To  laugh  away  fear. 

Laughter  saves  us: 

Still  more  than  half  of  us  is  buried  in  the  quick 
sands, 

Still  we  suffer, 

Still  we  doubt  and  are  damned  .  .  . 

But  comes  the  moment  when  we  take  a  square  look 
at  ourselves, 

And  seeing  how  absurd  our  antics  are,  laugh  and  are 
healed  ... 

And  so,  perhaps,  the  laughing  animal  shall  save  cre 
ation  .  .  . 


Xaugbter 


Already  the  wizened  stars  must  be  worried,  dumb 
founded, 

To  catch  that  raucous  cackle  and  chortle  from  the 
worthless  Earth  .  .  . 

That  mirth  in  the  trenches  of  the  dead, 

That  noise  of  relatives  eating  ham  sandwiches  after 
the  funeral  is  over, 

That  chuckle  of  the  rebuilders  of  cities  following 
the  earthquake, 

That  wheezing  gay  cough  of  the  dying  consumptive 
over  the  doctor's  joke  .  .  . 

And  now,  Creation,  I  think  your  very  purpose  was 

in  this : 
That  your  great  face  struggled  for  ages  on  ages  to 

break  in  a  smile  .  .  . 
We  are  that  smile  .  .  . 

So  I  say  Yes, 

Yes  to  the  dance  of  feet  in  the  Spring, 

Yes  to  the  shouts  of  children, 

Yes  to  laughter! 

Laughter,  last  of  the  gods, 
And  of  them  the  greatest, 
Yes,  say  I,  and  salute  you ! 

47 


TTbe  Greatest 


T 


THE  GREATEST 

HE  greatest  are  the  simplest  . 
They  need  be  nothing  else  .  .  . 


It  is  the  rest  who  have  to  play  parts, 
To  seem  what  they  are  not. 


48 


TO  NIETZSCHE 

A  MAZING  anchorite, 
**   Sick  god, 

Why  were  you  an  arrow  of  longing  for  the  Super 
man*? 

Not  even  Man  is  here: 

Children  in  masks  and  savages  with  manners 

Is  all  that  we  are — 

We  are  striving  to  be — human  .  .  . 

And  even — all-too-human  .  .  . 

You  ask  for  a  Superman? 
First  then  produce — a  Man. 


49 


•Report  on  tbe  planet,  Eartb 


REPORT  ON  THE  PLANET,  EARTH 

'T'O  the  Sky-Council  on  Star,  Riga,  Milky  Way: 
*•  I  have  to  report : 

That  detailed  by  the  Council  I  fell  on  a  beam  of 
light  down  through  interstellar  space 

A  year  and  a  day, 

Dropping  through  rings  of  worlds,  and  past  white 
flakes  of  suns, 

And  found  at  last,  in  a  cranny  of  the  crowded  uni 
verse, 

The  Solar  System, 

And  investigated  one  of  its  small  planets,  the  Earth. 

These  are  my  findings: 

The  inhabitants  thereof  are  not  very  game: 

They  complain  and  whine  a  great  deal : 

They  cannot  stand  pain: 

They  object  to  work: 

They  think  of  nothing  but  themselves : 

No    concern    for    these    crowded    heavens    around 

them: 

Nor  Earth's  purpose  in  the  skies: 

50 


IReport  on  tbc  planet,  JEartb 


Quarrelsome,  they  slaughter  each  other  with  in 
genious  death-dealers: 

They  bind  themselves  with  strange  chains  to  one  an 
other  : 

They  fear  the  new:  they  fear  the  old:  they  fear 
birth :  they  shrink  from  death : 

Those  that  have  visions  among  them  are  persecuted : 

They  applaud  any  one  who  makes  them  forget  what 
they  are  and  whither  they  are  going: 

They  are  cruel,  stupid,  childish,  undeveloped. 

I  have  to  report: 

That  they  even  forget  that  they  are  merely  movable 

parts  of  the  Earth, 
And  that  everything  that  inheres  in  Earth  inheres  in 

them: 
That  the  little  ball  that  blusters  so,  spouting  its  seas 

in  tempest,  and  sliding  its  hills, 
Smothered  in  storm  and  lightning,  and  plagued  with 

an  uncertainty  of  flood  and  thirst, 
Hot,  cold,  distempered,  risky, 
Is  repeated  in  each  one  of  them:  they  too  full  of 

weather  and  disaster: 
Primitive,  perilous  .  .  . 


IReport  on  tbe  planet,  Bartb 


The  which  forgetting, 

Produces  a  certain  surface  of  calm  and  harmony : 
Yes,  for  a  while: 

Then  the  explosion:  then  crime,  breakage, 
battle  .  .  . 

I  have  to  report: 

That  projected  by  Earth,  as  Earth  by  the  skies,  for 
large  purposes  and  splendid  adventure, 

They  sidestep,  try  to  evade,  escape  their  destinies: 

Do  their  utmost  to  reduce  life  to  a  mechanism  that 
works  by  itself: 

Leaving  them  free — for  what?  Communion  with 
Earth? 

Vision  of  heaven?     Probing  of  self? 

Why  no:  free  for  stupefying  stimulants  and  mem 
ory-sponging  joys  .  .  . 

I  have  to  report: 

That  they  are  very  cunning  indeed : 
They  have  builded  larger  than  themselves: 
Giant  cities  have  sprung  from  their  pigmy  hands: 
Their  engines  are  excellent: 
But  to  what  use  do  they  put  their  tools? 
Tut!  peacock- feathers,  and  the  well-stuffed  gullet! 

52 


IReport  on  tbe  planet,  Bartb 


I  have  to  report: 

That  though  the  Earth  is  rich,  yet  most  of  them  are 

very  poor: 
In  bitter  want: 
Curious,  this  childish  snatching  of  things  from  each 

other! 
Greed  is  their  stupidest  sin! 

I  have  to  report: 

That  while  there  is  much  excellence  in  the  love  be 
tween  man  and  woman, 

And  the  tender  love  toward  children, 

They  so  clutch  and  claw  one  another  that  love  stales 
into  indifference  or  irritation: 

Greed !  greed  again ! 

I  have  to  report: 

Hypocrisy  rampant,  and  hardly  any  one  passing  for 

what  he  really  is : 

But  advertising  himself  as  something  quite  other: 
Yes,  anything  to  succeed! 

I  have  to  report: 

Slights,  rebuffs,  insolences  unnumbered, 
Nothing  run  right:  but  everywhere  insidious  theft 
and  pilfering: 

53 


•Report  on  tbe  planet,  jEartb 


And  every  one  sentimental :  glossing  it  all  over  with 
a  call  to  love  for  mother,  for  children,  for  one's 
country. 

I  have  to  report: 

And,  Powers,  this  is  what  puzzles  me : 

An  Earth  so  absorbingly  interesting,  so  electric  in 
spite  of  its  dullness,  so  joyous  in  spite  of  its 
pain, 

That,  were  I  not  compelled  to  make  my  cosmic  ex 
aminations, 

I  should  love  to  live  there,  say,  three-score  ten  years 
of  their  life! 


54 


Immoral 


IMMORAL 

T    KEEP  walking  around  myself,  mouth  open  with 

amazement : 
For  by  all  the  ethical  rules  of  life,  I  ought  to  be 

solemn  and  sad, 
But,  look  you,  I  am  bursting  with  joy. 

I  scold  myself: 

I  say:     Boy,  your  work  has  gone  to  pot: 

You  have  scarcely  enough  money  to  last  out  the 
week : 

And  think  of  your  responsibilities ! 

Whereupon,  my  heart  bubbles  over, 

I  puff  on  my  pipe,  and  think  how  solemnly  the 
world  goes  by  my  window, 

And  how  childish  people  are,  wrinkling*  their  fore 
heads  over  groceries  and  rent. 

For  here  jets  life  fresh  and  stinging  in  the  vivid  air: 
The  winds  laugh  to  the  jovial  Earth: 
The  day  is  keen  with  Autumn's  fine  flavor  of  hav 
ing  done  the  year's  work: 
55 


I 

flmmoral 


Earth,  in  her  festival,  calls  her  children  to  the  crim 
son  revels. 

The  trees  are  a  drunken  riot:  the  sunshine  is  daz 
zling  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  ought,  I  suppose,  to  be  saddened  and  tragic : 
But  joy  drops  from  me  like  ripe  apples. 


CREED 


M 

**  With  clean  laughter  and  a  hard  soul, 


AFTER  all, 
With  clea 
I  greet  the  morning. 


My  darkness  was  full  of  disturbance: 

The  philosophers  and  the  scientists  and  the  doctors 

were  wrangling  together: 
And  each  grew  angry  with  greed  for  my  soul, 
And  angrier  to  find  the  others  also  greedy  for  me. 

My  friend,  the  Mechanist,  eyed  me : 
"You   are  dull,"   said  he,   "if  you  reject  my  be 
lief  .  .  . 

Life,  sir,  is  a  rearrangement  of  atoms : 
You  are  a  machine: 
The  Universe  is  purposeless: 
It  contains  no  more  to-day  than  it  did  a  millennium 

of  eons  ago. 

My   chemico-physical    friend:    this    is    the   fiat   of 
Science." 


57 


Creefc 


"Thanks,"  said  I  ... 

"This  relief  is  great. 

Good-by,  Old  Ethics,  and  my  Immortal  Soul : 

This  machine  is  quit  of  you." 

"Hold,"  cried  a  voice, 

And  my  friend,  the  Finalist,  buttoned  me  ... 

"Who  rearranged  the  atoms  ? 

Who  wrought  the  eye  that  beholds  the  shows  of  this 

Earth? 

Who  wrought  Man,  the  highest? 
There  is  a  plan  working  out: 
We  move  toward  'one  far-off  divine  event'  .  .  . 
Believe  this,  or  die  damned." 

"Excellent,"  said  I  ... 

"I  am  glad  to  know  I  am  planned  and  moved  .  .  . 
Farewell,   Originality,   farewell,   Responsibility — 
Use  me,  O  Rearranger  of  Atoms !" 

"Both  wrong,"  came  a  sore  whisper: 

And  behold,  there  stood  friend  What-do-you-call- 

him?  .... 
At  any  rate  he  thus  delivered  himself  .  .  . 

58 


"Ahem,  of  course,  as  it  were,  the  world  's  a  ma 
chine, 

But  then,  too,  purposes  invade  it  ... 
It 's  on  the  make  .  .  . 
What  make4?  who  knows ? 
It  may  go  here,  it  may  go  there  .  .  . 
A  vital  impetus  impels  it, 

A  sheaf  of  tendencies  expands  through  it  ... 
There  is  no  goal  .  .  . 

Eternal  Creativeness,  Variability,  Newness: 
The  past  bound  up  in  the  present  makes  the  future, 
And  Man  's  the  crest  of  the  wave." 

"Greatly  obliged,"  said  I, 

"Come  on,  Old  Vital  Impetus: 

Come,  Herd  of  Tendencies: 

Let 's  start  a  fresh  creation  to-morrow  morning." 

"Eh,  what  is  this?" 

Alas,  I  was  confronted  by  an  antique  Dualist: 
"Do  you  not  know  you  stand  in  the  clutch  of  Error? 
Rash  man,  the  World  's  not  One,  and  neither  is  it 

Many: 

The  World  is  Two: 
There  's  body  and  there  Js  spirit, 

59 


CteeE> 

And  superimposed  on  the  natural  order  is  the  moral 

order  .  .  . 

There  is  a  moral  world :  an  ethical  framework : 
And  to  its  laws  your  soul  must  bow  .  .  . 
Be  ethical,  or  be  damned." 

"Good  God!"  I  sighed, 

"How  simple  .  .  . 

I  '11  study  the  code  and  know  just  what  to  do  ... 

An  end  of  worry!" 

A  dozen  voices  spoke  at  once: 

"You  say  good  God  .  .  .  remember  the  children  of 
Abraham  .  .  ." 

"Nay,"  said  another,  "Christ  was  the  Lord  Incar 
nate  .  .  ." 

"Christ?     Buddha!" 

"Buddha?     Mahomet,    the   only   true   prophet   of 
Allah!" 

"Tut !  it 's  all  a  neurosis :  a  mere  subconscious  im 
pulsion  !" 

"Oh,  no,  it 's  economic  determinism !" 

"Matter?     There  is  no  matter  ...  the  world  of 
sense  is  illusion  .  .  . 

Thought  is  reality." 

60 


The  night  grew  dark  and  full  of  disturbance  .  .  . 
And  I  knew  then  that  the  philosophers,  the  scientists, 

the  doctors  and  the  divines 
Were  all  greedy  after  my  soul  .  .  . 

It  was  well  that  morning  broke, 

Well  that  revolt  swept  through  me,  lifting  me  up, 

Well,  that  after  all, 

With  clean  laughter  and  a  hard  soul, 

I  could  greet  the  morning. 

"Friends  all,"  said  I, 

"Perhaps  Life  is  what  you  each  say  it  is  ... 

But  I  suspect  that  Life  is  both  less  and  more  .  .  . 

I  suspect  that  the  human  mind  is  a  very  limited 
organ  .  .  . 

I  suspect  that  it  loves  simplicity,  that  it  loves  to  re 
duce  multiplicity  to  unity, 

That  it  craves  graspable  formulas  and  prescriptions: 

And  I  suspect  that  the  formula  of  each  man  is  the 
man  himself: 

The  sort  of  breakfast  he  cares  for,  and  the  kind  of 
pride  he  indulges  in, 

And  his  happiness  or  misery  in  his  love-life, 

And  the  kind  of  impression  he  wants  to  make  .  .  . 

61 


Creefr 

A  healthy  belly  rejoices  that  it  is  chemico-physical, 

And  a  hardy  ego  enjoys  being  a  god, 

And   a  methodical   card-index   soul   is   glad  of   a 

planned-out  universe, 
And  a  wild  gipsy  believes  in  chaos, 
Whereas  a  child  longs  for  God,  the  Father. 

"Now,  friends  all  ... 

I  reject  none  of  your  formulas:  no,  not  a  one  .  .  . 
They  are  excellent  tools  to  do  excellent  work  .  .  . 
And  then,  too,  they  keep  you  in  pride  and  healthy 

defiance : 

But  as  to  accepting  them :  that  is  another  matter  .  .  . 
Rather  will  I  discover  what  I  am, 
And  accept  those  tools  which  will  help  to  unfold  me 

further  in  selfhood, 
And  such  things  as  I  need  for  my  own  pride  and 

my  own  tasks. 

And  I  will  accept  them  very  gingerly, 
Not  as  Truth,  my  friends,  but  as  Tools  alone  .  .  . 
And  one  only  thing  shall  be  a  dogma  with  me : 
Namely,  that  little  is  known:  and  that  I  know  very 

little  . 


62 


Creeb 


"So  I  will  write  me  songs  that  please  my  own  soul, 

And  walk  in  the  garden  and  smell  the  roses  and 
forget-me-nots, 

And  drink  a  cocktail,  if  I  have  a  mind  to, 

And  give  myself  to  the  mystery  of  this  enveloping 
world, 

Send  out  my  feelers  through  the  dark  to  the  un 
touchable  stars, 

And  the  almost  equally  untouchable  men  and  women 
around  me  ... 

Sensitively  respond  to  the  weather,  and  the  splen 
dors  of  art,  and  the  life  of  cities, 

And  find  me  a  woman  who  meets  me  with  glad  re 
sponses, 

And  love  mightily  .  .  . 

"And  I  shall  be  as  little  afraid  of  laughter  as  of 
tears  .  .  . 

Read  philosophy  and  science  with  zest,  and  test  them 
out  against  the  smell  of  honeysuckle  .  .  . 

Ponder  on  the  universe,  and  then  kiss  the  lips  of  my 
adored  one  .  .  . 

And  I  shall  be  unafraid  of  the  mightiest  pur 
poses  .  .  . 

63 


Greet) 

If  I  see  for  my  soul  an  unfolding,  I  shall  strive  to 

unfold  it  so, 
And  if  I  find  friends  who  can  share  the  good  of  life 

with  me,  I  shall  bind  them  to  my  heart  .  .  . 

"For,  dear  Doctrinaires, 

I  too  am  greedy  after  my  own  soul : 

And  I  believe  Life  is  greater  than  any  of  our  state 
ments  about  it, 

And  I  believe  in  Experience,  as  a  realization  beyond 
the  power  of  thought, 

And  there  is  something  in  me  that  can  arise  and  laugh 
freshly  after  defeat, 

Yea,  even  after  absorbing  intricate  logic  of  philo 
sophical  web-spinners  .  .  . 

"A  man  before  these  mysteries, 
A  man  against  vastness  and  multiple  Life, 
With  awe,  reverence,  impudence,  gaiety,  anger,  de 
light, 

I  give  myself  to  the  glories  of  this  day, 
I  move  on  by  the  North  Star  of  Self. 

"And  even  if  this  be  creed  also, 
I  say,  let  it  be  so  .  .  . 
It  is  at  least  my  own ! 

64 


"So,  after  all, 

With  clean  laughter  and  a  hard  soul, 

I  greet  the  morning." 


H  ffuneral 


A  FUNERAL 

HEARD  the  preacher  preaching  at  the  funeral: 
*      He  moved  the  relatives  to  tears  telling  them  of 
the  father,  husband  and  friend  that  was  dead : 
Of  the  sweet  memories  left  behind  him : 
Of  a  life  that  was  good  and  kind. 

I  happened  to  know  the  man: 

And  I  wondered  whether  the  relatives  would  have 

wept  if  the  preacher  had  told  the  truth: 
Let  us  say  like  this: 

"The  only  good  thing  this  man  ever  did  in  his  life, 

Was  day  before  yesterday : 

He  died  .  .  . 

But  he  did  n't  even  do  that  of  his  own  volition  .  .  . 

He  was  the  meanest  man  in  business  on  Manhattan 
Island, 

The  most  treacherous  friend,  the  crudest  and  stin 
giest  husband, 

And  a  father  so  hard  that  his  children  left  home  as 
soon  as  they  were  old  enough  .  .  . 
66 


H  ffuneral 


Of  course  he  had  divinity:  everything  human  has: 
But  he  kept  it  so  carefully  hidden  away  that  he 
might  just  as  well  not  have  had  it  ... 

"Wife !  good  cheer !  now  you  can  go  your  own  way 

and  live  your  own  life! 
Children,  give  praise !  you  have  his  money :  the  only 

good  thing  he  ever  gave  you  .  .  . 
Friends !  you  have  one  less  traitor  to  deal  with  .  .  . 
This  is  indeed  a  day  of  rejoicing  and  exultation! 
Thank  God  this  man  is  dead!" 


67 


tbe  Sun 


SAID  THE  SUN 

SAID  the  sun:     I  that  am  immense  and  shaggy 
flame, 

Sustain  the  small  ones  yonder: 
But  what  do  they  do  when  their  half  of  the  Earth  is 

turned  from  me4? 
Poor  dark  ones,  denied  my  light. 

A  little  brain,  however,  was  on  that  other  half  of 

the  planet  .  .  . 
And  so  there  were  lamps. 


68 


Tftninspirefc  Xaborer 


THE  UNINSPIRED  LABORER 

SO,  you  love  the  "uninspired  laborer" — 
He  is  "near  to  Earth" : 
You  feel  mystically  for  him,  and  fight  his  cause. 

Fight  his  cause  if  you  will: 

Live  with  him  if  you  desire: 

But  do  not  place  him  above  the  first  of  men; 

Do  not  put  him  above  the  level  of  the  noble  and 

great  .  .  . 
Nay,  nor  above  yourself  .  .  . 

For  if  your  religion  is  the  uninspired  laborer, 

Because  he  is  near  to  Earth, 

Why  not  go  nearer  to  Earth, 

Back  through  the  process  a  bit  further, 

And  love  and  make  a  religion  of  the  animals'? 

What  is  happening  is  that  you  have  much  of  the 

beast  in  yourself, 

And  you  therefore  make  peace  with  yourself 
By  calling  the  beast  a  god. 

69 


Bast  an&  TKHest 


EAST  AND  WEST 

A  MODERN  SPEAKS: 


YA  7HEN  shall  the  parted  be  joined 

*  *     And  the  far  grow  near? 
The  voice  of  the  Sphinx  in  starlight  in  silence  of 

the  desert, 
The  voice  of  the  East: 


THE  SPHINX  SPEAKS: 

When   Earth  became  Man,   I  became   Mother  of 

Man  .  .  . 
My  inscrutable  mystery  enfolded  him  in  a  second 

journey  in  the  womb, 
And  the  Earth-born  became  Man-born :  flesh  became 

spirit. 

My  sons  are  Buddha,  Krishna,  Zoroaster  and  Jesus : 
Conversion-names  .  .  . 
Images  that  lifted  the  eyes  of  man  up, 
That  turned  the  passion  of  Man  from  procreation 
to  self-creation. 

70 


Bast  an& 


The  rivers  that  flowed  to  the  phallus  now  branched 

to  the  brain: 
Man  overflowed  his  animal :  god  was  born. 

This  is  the  Treasure  I  found: 

And  this  I  guard  .  .  . 

The  engulfing  centuries  engulf  me  not: 

Asia  and  Egypt  sit  with  eyes  inward,  and  lips  pray 
ing: 

They  crouch  like  a  Sphinx:  they  brood  like  a 
Buddha: 

They  save  and  guard  this  sacred  Fire  against  Time: 

They  save  it,  waiting  the  coming  of  the  Hero  .  .  . 

Then  shall  be  the  Marriage  of  the  Earth: 

Then  million-scattered  humanity  becomes  Man  .  .  . 

In  ancient  days, 

The  Hero  departed,  my  religions  on  his  lips, 

But  his  own  blood  too  full  of  young  quivering  fire 

to  bide  with  me, 
Oh,  adventurer,  Earth-lover,  warrior-man  .  .  . 

He  saw  not  the  stars  as  Creation: 
He    beheld    the    North    Star   as    a   guide    for    his 
ship  .  .  . 


Bast  an£>  TKHest 


He  sought  no  Holy  Land: 

He  searched  for  Eldorado  .  .  . 

The  lightning  held  no  vision  for  him  .  .  . 

He  seized  it  to  turn  wheels  .  .  . 

He  converted  mystery  into  action  .  .  . 

Not  the  tall  spirit  he  sought,  but  a  longer  reach  of 
his  body : 

Derrick-arms,  wheel-feet,  steel-muscles,  engine- 
heart, 

And  electric  voice  and  ear  and  telescope-eyes. 

I  sit  a  Giant  of  Soul : 

And  the  Hero  has  become  a  Giant  of  Flesh  .  .  . 

When  shall  the  Giants  mate '2 

When  shall  my  Soul  enter  his  Body, 

And  his  Body  enfold  my  Soul? 

When  shall  Earth  and  the  Life  of  Earth  be  one? 

THE  HERO  SPEAKS: 

Mother,  and  Woman  of  Mystery, 
Eternal  Feminine, 

I  stand  on  the  ultimate  Western  shores,  and  behold, 
I  see  the  East  before  me  ... 
72 


Bast  anfc  West 


And  so  I  pause  .  .  . 

My  helmet  of  steel  I  push  back  from  my  eyes, 

I  blow  from  me  great  mill-smokes  that  dim  my 

vision, 
The  hurry  of  my  engine-winged  feet  is  slowed  and 

stopped, 
And  my  blackened  hands  in  the  foundry  fires  rest 

from  their  cunning. 

My  quest  has  led  to  strange  ends : 
Truly  I  went  forth  eager  to  throw  the  hills, 
And  break  in  the  bare-back  seas, 
Yea,     to    harness    and    bridle    the    fire-nostriled 
Earth  .  .  . 

When  I  stood  naked,  flesh  without  claws  or  fangs, 

A  voice  the  wind  drowned, 

An  eye  stopped  by  opaqueness, 

A  strength  unequal  to  the  horse, 

I  said  I  will  become  a  colossus  of  tools  .  .  . 

I  will  order  the  fecundity  of  the  Earth  that  I  hunger 

not, 

Clothe  myself  that  I  freeze  not; 

73 


Bast  ant)  Timest 


Ride  water,  fly  land,  dart  speech,  light  darkness; 
Commandeer  the  secrets  of  the  Stars  and  the  Earth- 
sealed  Past  .  .  . 
And  stride  the  world,  its  Conqueror  .  .  . 

Much  have  I  wrought,  a  miracle-worker  .  .  . 

And  yet  there  is  confusion  and  darkness  in  me  ... 

Festering  slums,  slaughter,  and  restlessness  .  .  . 

Behold,  I  have  created  the  Machine,  and  it  has  be 
come  my  Master : 

As  a  slave  I  drudge  and  suffer  to  keep  the  wheels 
turning  .  .  . 

Have  I  gained  the  whole  world,  and  lost  my  own 
soul? 

Have  I  bound  myself  over  to  my  giant  body? 

For  my  own  mind,  Science,  begins  to  deny  me  ... 
Even  that  which  discovered  and  seized  the  powers 

of  the  Earth, 

Looking  further,  probes  Life, 
And  begins  to  whisper  of  the  Soul  .  .  . 

And  now,  O  Sphinx,  on  my  western  outpost  shores 

I  question  you  again  .  .  . 
What  is  the  answer? 

74 


East  an&  Timest 


THE  SPHINX  SPEAKS: 

You  have  failed  to  conquer  the  Conqueror  .  .  . 
You  have  failed  to  conquer  Yourself  .  .  . 

Turn  to  where  there  is  Love,  turn  to  your  Soul,  to 

me  ... 

Come,  O  Hero,  back  to  the  Mother  of  the  East :  .  .  . 
Come,  my  Lover  .  .  . 

A  MODERN  SPEAKS: 

I  heard  East  call  to  West,  and  West  to  East  .  .  . 
I  see  a  vision  of  the  bridal  emerging  .  .  . 
I  see  a  vision  of  planetary  man  .  .  . 

Man  shall  have  One  Body,  One  Soul  .  .  . 
The  East  brings  Soul,  the  West  Body  .  .  . 

Behold,  then  a  mighty  inner  strength  in  a  network 
of  Earth-engirdling  outer  strength  .  .  . 

A  being  that  is  the  Planet,  with  telegraph  nerves, 

With  winged  mobility,  and  profound  knowledge, 

With  interchange  of  life  and  tools, 

With   conqueror's    strength   over   the   brutality   of 
Earth, 

75 


East  an&  TWlest 


With  leisure,  wealth,  and  beauty, 

All  harmonized  with  the  flowing  life  of  the  heavens, 

The  flood  that  rolls  in  the  inner  reaches, 

The  unity  of  the  creative  urge,  the  spirit  of  man, 

And  the  body  that  makes  of  vision,  deed, 

Of  dream,  action  .  .  . 

Thus  shall  the  god  beyond  man  be  born. 


76 


Wise 


THE  WISE 

LORY  'S  not  otherwhere  but  here: 
Yonder  stars  may  be  more  horrible  than  the 
worst  of  Earth. 


The  foolish  man  seeks  happiness  in  the  distance: 
The  wise  grows  it  under  his  feet. 


77 


of 


CITY  OF  MYSELF 

MA,' 


ANY  travelers,  welcome  home! 

am  the  city  for  little  travelers :  the  hospitable 
city: 

Come,  happy  crowds  of  atoms,  and  be  housed  and  at 
home  with  me. 


Come  from  the  fields,  the  seas  and  the  hills, 

Drop  from  the  air, 

Oh,  atoms  that  make  my  body,  that  gather  so  cun 
ningly, 

That  out  of  your  rhythmic  and  ordered  millions 
make  this  metropolis,  myself! 

I  shall  never  understand  you: 

Never  know  by  what  wisdom  you  choose  your  tasks : 

Why  some  of  you  become  gray  brain,  and  some  red 
blood, 

And  others  this  flexible  cartilage,  and  others  secre 
tions  .  .  . 

Never  may  my  imagination  behold  you  in  your  num- 
berlessness, 


City  of 


Nor  guess  at  your  divisions  of  labor,  and  your  mar 
velous  brotherhoods  .  .  . 

How  do  you  choose  this  government,  my  will*? 

Who  appoints  the  communication  system,  my 
nerves? 

Who  places  the  earnest  workers  in  every  part? 

Whose  wisdom  has  arranged  the  transportation 
scheme  for  food  and  waste? 

Who  inaugurated  this  clever  street  cleaning  depart 
ment? 

Yea,  and  this  central  dynamo-plant,  my  heart? 

Sometimes  pestilence  sweeps  this  city, 
And  there  are  strange  fires  that  play  over  it : 
It  has  its  holidays  of  rejoicing,  its  twilights  of  melan 
choly, 

There  are  days  of  terrific  toil,  there  are  nights  of 
sleepiest  peace  .  .  . 

But  forever  there  is  more  brotherhood  and  union 

among  its  millions, 
More  harmony  of  universal  work, 
Than  in  London  town,  or  Paris,  or  that  lusty  tall 

giant,  New  York  .  .  . 


79 


of 


And  lo,  here  is  my  city,  right  here  composing  me  at 

this  moment, 

Compact,  small  and  usable* 
My  feet  under  the  table,  my  right  hand  holding  a 

pen, 
My  eyes  peering  down  on  these  emerging  words  .  .  . 

Is  n't  it  all  unbelievable? 

So  natural  in  its  effects,  so  impossible  in  its  causes'? 
So  lately  come  into  existence,  so  soon  to  vanish  as 
all  cities  have  vanished? 


80 


EARTH-BOUND 

IV  A  AN,  full  of  the  passion  of  his  little  Earth, 

"  *  Finds  it  hard  to  detach  himself  and  become  a 
part  of  the  stars — 

To  view  aside  from  his  desires  and  dreams  the  burn 
ing  and  flaming  of  the  universe — 

To  see  the  immensity  of  the  drive  of  life,  and  how 
minor  is  his  fate  in  this  major  action. 

He  looks  into  the  night  and  says :     Behold,  there  is 

Peace,  there  is  Silence ! 
Not  so!     There  is  flame,  creation,  winged  speed, 

and  the  roaring  of  new-made  worlds ! 
Peace*?     Where  is  it*?     Only  in  our  own  victories 

over  ourselves, 
Only  in  moments  of  rest  after  battles. 

Death  will  surprise  him  who  longs  for  his  infancy 

again — 
The  silence  and  hush  of  the  womb. 


81 


TKaeafe  Sbali  ffaft 


THE  WEAK  SHALL  FAIL 

'T'HE  weak  shall  fail: 

*     Leave  them  to  their  own  devices  and  they  fail : 
Prop  them  up,  and  they  will  crawl  with  crutches : 
Or  give  them  light,  and  they  will  not  have  the  cour 
age  to  see  themselves  in  the  light, 
And  to  dare  according  to  the  light. 

Strength  breaks  conditions,  yea,  and  makes  them: 
Strength  uses  props  to  escape  from  props: 
Strength,  given  the  light,  sallies  out  to  the  undared 
day  .  .  . 

Yea,  it  is  hard  doctrine : 

And  though  the  strong  may  understand  and  love  the 

weak, 

As  a  father  his  children, 
And  though  he  shall  harness  them  to  work  and  give 

them  happy  hours, 
Little  else  can  he  do : 
In  the  end,  as  in  the  beginning, 
The  weak  shall  fail. 

82 


Symbols 


SYMBOLS 

ALL  that  we  see  is  a  symbol  of  the  inner  life- 
Images  by  which  we  may  think  of  the  spirit 
ual  .  .  . 
What  precipices  of  Earth  steeper  and  deeper  than 

those  of  my  own  soul? 
What  clouds  of  the  sky  more  darkening  than  those 

of  my  heart? 
What  sun  so  dazzling  as  the  light  of  my  spirit? 

There  were  two  of  us,  woman  and  man,  going  about 

the  city  .  .  . 
Solid  streets,   our  two  solid  bodies,   sunshine  and 

busy  crowds  .  .  . 

But  in  reality,  together  we  walked  through  swamps, 
Went  diving  down  dizzy  abysses, 
Climbed  Himalayas  for  a  vision  of  love, 
Hunted   in   thick  jungles,    dragged   in    abandoned 

floods, 
And  fought  like  eagles  in  mid-heaven  .  .  . 


ZTbe  planetary  Bnimals 


THE  PLANETARY  ANIMALS 

'"THESE  little  planetary  animals,  men, 
*     Dressed     in     fluent     and     elastic     garments, 

strangely  upright  and  movable, 
Busily  working,  shaping,  constructing  on  the  broad 

surfaces  of  the  Earth — 

By  mighty  slopes,  on  great  waters,  in  deep  gulches — 
Working  their  own  will  as  against  the  will  of 
Nature. 

Patient,  passionate,  absorbed — 

Hardly  aware  of  background — 

Working  for  appetite's  sake,  survival's  sake — 

Yet  actors  in  an  invisible  drama. 


84 


Ott>  Sorrow 


OLD  SORROW 

T   MET  old  Sorrow  on  a  New  England  hill  .  .  . 
The  West  wind  dancing  down  the  slope,  quite 

naked, 

Skipping,  slapping  the  cheeks  of  grapes, 
And  knocking  apples  about, 
And  pulling  up  handfuls  of  seeds  out  of  gardens  and 

scattering  them  wide, 
Shocked  old  Sorrow  .  .  . 

"Young  man,"  she  said  to  me, 

"If  you  think  the  heart  is  less  wistful  after  visions 

Than  when  Egypt  builded 

Or  Greece  made  song, 

If  you   think  human  destiny   less   tragic   than   on 

Gethsemane, 

Or  death  easier  than  Rachel  found  it, 
Look  in  your  own  heart,  or  your  neighbor's  .  .  . 
Gray!  gray!  gray! 
Even  as  the  Atlantic  on  the  cliffs  of  my  roaring 

coasts  .      ." 


Sorrow 


Just  then  the  naked  West  wind 
Yanked  my  hair  back  and  kissed  me  with  cider- 
fragrance  on  the  lips 
And  sprinkling  me  with  hayseeds 
Went  laughing  down  the  lane  .  .  . 

"Sorrow,"  I  said, 

"I  deny  nothing  .  .  . 

Suicide,  murder  and  child-beating  are  still  in  fashion, 

Poverty  finds  the  milk-bottle  empty  and  the  rich 

contemptuous, 

Injustice,  jealousy,  lust  .  .  . 
All,  all,  freely  granted  .  .  . 
Yet  something  new, 
Something  I  can't  define, 
Something  that  dances, 
Something  that  shines  ... 
In  the  core,  something  that  laughs,  blowing  us  into 

to-morrow." 

Nevertheless  old  Sorrow  sat  there  on  her  New  Eng 
land  hill: 

While  the  strong  youths  of  the  region  hurried  away 
to  the  West. 


86 


'/iDan,  Born  of  TKnoman" 


"MAN,  BORN  OF  WOMAN" 

PHEY  sang  of  old  of  a  Heaven  as  big  as  the  sky, 
*     And  a  Hell  vast  as  chaos : 
And  they  said  the  far-rolling  multitudes  of  the  dead 

were  swept  to  these  empires : 
There,  radiant  in  the  gaze  of  the  Lord, 
Or,  charred  in  the  Devil's  blazings, 
Millions  on  millions  of  Earth's  flesh-children  were 
crowned  or  consumed  .  .  . 

But  now  I  go  examine  my  breathing  body: 

And    in   my   mind's   hand   hold   Hamlet-like   my 

skull  .  .  . 

Lo,  in  my  hand  the  real  Heaven,  the  real  Hell  .  .  . 
In  this  spheroid  shape,  the  profound  consciousness: 
Huge  as  nether  night  is  Purgatory's  domain, 
And  fanning  further  than  the  sun  is  the  morning  of 

Paradise. 

Ferried  were  the  dead  through  mother  to  child  and 

from  age  to  age 
By  Charon,  the  seed  of  man : 

87 


"/iDan,  Born  of  TKHoman" 


Ferried  were  the  bodies  of  the  dead : 

In  the  flesh  of  my  mother  I  changed  from  the  float 
ing  cell,  bequeathed  by  the  dead, 

Swiftly  into  the  reptile,  the  ape,  and  so  into  man  .  .  . 

This  little  skull  was  distilled  from  a  vanished  sea 
of  flesh  .  .  . 

And  so  with  the  bodies  the  selves  of  the  dead  were 

ferried : 
Into  this  skull  have  the  far-culled  multitudes  of  the 

dead  been  caught: 

Serpents  coiled  and  fanging  their  prey: 
The  he-wolf  stalking  his  mate  when  the  spring  moon 

silvered  the  jungle: 

The  gorilla  crushing  blood  to  his  hairy  breast: 
Savages  dancing  rites  round  the  fires  of  primeval 

fastnesses : 

The  arena-ringing  Greeks,  the  sea-called  Vikings, 
Scalds  of  the  North  and  prophets  of  the  sand  .  .  . 
And  the  humble  untableted  millions  in  the  fading 

chasms  of  time  .  .  . 

Down  in  Purgatory,  the  dead  are  sealed : 
But  they  are  I: 

88 


"HOan,  Born  of  TKHoman" 


Of  a  sudden  in  the  night  the  torment  of  CEdipus 

astonishes  my  heart, 

Or  possessed  by  Othello  a  hissing  jealousy  stuns  me: 
Lo,  at  times  I  sweat  with  the  guilt  of  Judas, 
I  laugh  with  torturer  Nero's  mirth : 
And  at  times  I  am  stark  savage,  demonic  in  the  night 

of  the  world, 
And  at  times  the  lusting  beast,  hunting  a  mate  .  .  . 

But  upward  opens  the  golden  dawn  of  Paradise  in 
the  morning: 

And  there  are  the  radiant  dead :  they  are  I : 

Lord,  my  heart  sings  when  Joan  wakes  in  my  soul: 

My  heart  lifts  its  gates,  and  they  are  uplifted  when 
David  walks  on  the  slopes  of  my  spirit: 

My  being  rolls  psalms  of  great  praise  when  dream 
ing  Buddha  opens  his  eyes, 

And  the  drums  of  new  conquests  greet  the  arising  of 
Charlemagne, 

And  spring  is  here  where  Jesus  treads. 

Lo,  what  am  I  then? 

This  poor  little  trafficker  on  the  streets  of  noisy 

trade? 

89 


'jflDan,  3Botn  of  IKIloman" 


This  tiny  eater  and  drinker  that  goes  garbed  to  the 

table? 
This  atom  of  tinkling  pain  and  mirth  mocked  by  the 

stars'?  .  .  . 

No,  I  am  Heaven  and  Hell,  housing  humanity : 
I  am  the  race :  I  am  the  Earth :  I  am  that  I  am  ... 

God  am  I  of  the  creation  weltering  within  me  ... 
God  to  seize  on  these  snatches  of  song,  these  broken 

chords,  these  shattered  tunes, 
And  shape  a  clear  sharp  music  of  Self. 

Then  let  me  build  on  what  I  am : 

Let  me  build,  not  on  the  dream  of  myself  in  the 

hearts  of  my  friends, 
Not  on  the  strange  sweet  saint  that  I  think  I  should 

be, 

But  on  this  that  I  am  .  .  . 
Let  me  build  in  the  foundations  of  my  flesh, 
A  strong  beast,  a  lithe  savage,  a  human  man  .  .  . 

Let  me  rear  no  palace  of  foam  built  on  a  tranced 

illusion : 

But  begin  with  the  solid  Earth,  shaping  my  animal ; 
He  shall  be  the  least  of  me:  but  he  shall  be  himself: 

90 


,  3Born  ot  *BCloman" 


In  clean  joy  drinking  and  eating  of  the  life  of  the 
Earth, 

And  mating  lustily  .  .  . 

And  for  the  savage  in  me  I  shall  grant  a  range  and 
a  scope: 

I  shall  let  him  go  fight  in  the  raw  battles  of  com 
merce, 

And  join  in  the  sports  of  men: 

I  shall  let  his  obscene  laughter  have  its  earthquake 
hour, 

And  grant  him  to  be  a  loafer  shuffling  slow-footed 
in  the  mob. 

Then  greatly  shall  I  seize  on  the  powers  of  Hell  and 

Heaven 

To  do  my  god's  job,  the  shaping  of  a  man  .  .  . 
The  mind,  the  luminous  bath  of  thought : 
The  friend,  the  lover  woven  into  all  flesh: 
The  toiler,  shaping  strange  tools: 
And  that  true  creation  of  self  that  is  wrought  in  the 

service  of  others, 

And  by  the  passion  for  creating  souls  .  .  . 
If  I  am  the  race,  I  must  work  for  the  race : 
If  I  am  the  Earth,  I  must  shape  to  the  purpose  of 

the  Earth: 

91 


,  IBorn  of  TKHoman1 


I  must  open  my  being  to  the  flow  of  the  life  of  the 

planet  and  the  suns, 
And  give  forth  myself  with  the  heat  and  love  of 

those  fires  .  .  . 

Not  beyond  the  stars, 

Not  beneath  the  Earth, 

But  here  in  this  tiny  skull  are  Heaven  and  Hell  .  .  . 

Such  is  Man,  born  of  woman. 


92 


ZTwo  jflDusics 


TWO  MUSICS 

HERE  are  two  musics: 
A  backward  music  and  a  forward  music 


T 


The  one  is  of  childhood: 

It  has   the   rhythm  of  finger-sucking:  steady  and 
sweet. 

The  other  is  of  manhood : 

It  is  more  like  the  rhythm  of  advancing  Nature, 
A  vague  harmony  blending  diverse  pulsings; 
Full  of  daring,  a  little  unsatisfying, 
Prompting  to  action,  not  to  dreams. 


93 


H  <3irl  in  tbe  Subway 


A  GIRL  IN  THE  SUBWAY 

TIER  colors  called  the  eye: 

*  *  A  green  silk  skirt,  and  a  black  coat,  with  a  red 

rose  dangling  from  it: 

A  black  hat  tied  under  the  chin  with  velvet  ribbon: 
A    drugged    face,    childishly    pouting,    with    long- 
fringed  meaningless  blue  eyes. 

Suddenly  she  opened  a  letter,  and  read  it  through, 

And  returned  it  to  the  envelope. 

Then  she  gazed  dreamily  with  tear-filled  eyes. 


94 


©uteoor  flDotion  picture  Sbow 


THE  OUTDOOR  MOTION  PICTURE 
SHOW 

DED  and  green  lamps  were  strung  along  the  four 

*  ^       walls  of  the  stockade, 

Back,  on  the  rocky  hill,  and  the  up-sloping  street, 

and  in  the  tenement  windows, 
Crowds  were  watching  the  pictures  slapped  against 

the  side  of  night. 

It  was  uncanny  to  see  this  pictured  intimacy, 
Men  and  women  kissing  and  hugging  in  the  open  air, 
Among  crowds  of  stolid,  speechless  people ; 
Yea,  to  see  writ  in  the  heavens,  as  it  were, 
The  inner  life  of  this  quiet  audience  of  Earth: 
To  see  what  goes  on  under  these  masks 
Flashed  forth  in  action, 
All  in  the  warm  and  wet-edged  night. 


95 


WOODS 

V\7 ALKING  in  woods 

*  *  Gray  in  my  memories, 
I  heard  the  sighing  of  women, 
But  no  one  was  there. 

The  afternoon  was  so  still  that  I  could  hear  the 
prickle  of  pine-needles  fluttering  on  dead 
leaves  .  .  . 

I  looked  closer,  and  I  too  sighed  .  .  . 
The  trees  themselves  were  women,  with  silent  arms 
held  over  my  head  .  .  . 

I  was  very  tired, 

And  I  longed  again  to  be  a  child, 

Quit  of  the  stern  struggle  of  manhood  .  .  . 

So  I  went  deeper  into  the  gray  woods  .  .  . 

Then  horror  rose  in  me : 

And  I  could  not  move,  nor  close  my  eyes  to  the 
vision  .  .  . 

96 


TKIloofcs 


For  about  a  tree  coiled  a  serpent, 
And  bound  to  the  tree  by  the  serpent, 
Struggled  a  child  .  .  . 

The  child  was  dying  .  .  . 
He  sank  against  the  warm  tree-trunk, 
And  the  murmuring  tree  reached  down  to  enfold 
him  .  .  . 

I  saw  then  a  cleft  in  the  tree, 

And  the  child  trying  to  enter  into  that  fastness  .  .  . 

0  then  I  knew  he  would  die,  smothered,  in  the  tree- 

trunk, 

Or  die  in  the  coil  of  the  serpent, 
And  as  in   a  dream  one  at  last  shrieks,   bursting 

through  bands  of  silence, 

1  shrieked:     "His  neck:  strangle  him!" 

The   child   turned,    seized   the   slippery   neck,    and 

twisted  it  ... 

I  drank  my  own  blood  in  that  battle, 
Though  still  I  was  moveless  .  .  . 


97 


Then  I  bore  the  child  out  of  the  woods  in  my  arms, 

But  as  we  came  to  the  meadows, 

He  melted,  as  it  were,  in  my  body  .  .  . 

And  I  laughed,  a  man  again  .  .  . 

The  gray  woods  of  our  memories  are  perilous 
When  we  retreat  from  battle. 


98 


Ube  Centaur 


THE  CENTAUR 

TN  a  pleasant  valley  of  childhood, 

*  Where  the  brook  splashed  rock  to  rock, 

Hidden  by  oaks  and  beeches, 

I  came  across  a  strange  animal 

With  a  boy's  face  .  .  . 

It  was  really  a  Centaur : 

All  that  was  horse  was  shaggy,  fleshy  and  hot, 

With  rearing  legs; 

But  the  neck  was  the  slim  fresh  torso  of  a  boy, 

White  and  curved, 

And  the  dark  head  had  beauty  .  .  . 

I  stood,  gazing,  away  from  the  sunlight  that  pierced 

the  tree  tops 
With  lances  of  light,  breaking  silver  in  the  singing 

waters  .  .  . 
And  as  I  watched 

I  saw  the  boy  turn  against  the  horse, 
And  push  with  his  hands  the  shaggy  back, 
And  tear  it  with  his  teeth, 

99 


TTbe  Centaur 


Groaning,  gnashing, 

While  the  legs  leaped  about  and  the  tail  swung 
lashing  back  and  forth  .  .  . 

I  groaned  myself,  fearing  the  boy's  death  .  .  . 
He  struggled,  sank,  arose,  and  with  a  great  cry, 
As  if  from  a  rock,  sprang  forth  suddenly, 
Splitting  the  Centaur  .  .  . 

Then  I  marveled: 

For  the  body  of  the  horse  stood  there,  a  weeping 

woman,  solemn  and  shawled, 
And  the  boy,  turning  away  from  her  arms, 
Was  a  man  walking  in  sorrow. 

It  was  thus  the  Mother  lost  her  son. 


100 


TTbe  (Bras 


THE  GRAY  MOTHERS 

TN  an  ancient  sunless  temple, 

*   Where  even  at  midday  the  stars  are  seen  through 

the  roof, 
The  gray  mothers  stand,  they  whose  eyes  see  too 

deep: 
For  out  of  them  all  flesh  comes,  and  all  the  future. 


Together,  though  they  are  millions,  they  breathe  up 

one  ghost, 

She  whose  blood-drops  are  suns  and  planets, 
The  Mother  of  the  Heavens. 

Now  ever  a  mother  comes  to  the  temple  door 
And  sends,  with  kisses,  and  tears  too,  a  little  boy  or 
a  girl  into  the  meadow  .  .  . 

So  to  the  meadow  ran 

A  white-bodied  girl,  sweet  with  loosed  golden  hair, 

Ungarmented,  singing  .  .  . 


101 


/iDotbers 


Where  the  new  buttercups  fluttered  on  the  wild 

grass  slope 

She  flung  herself  down, 
And  played  with  stones  of  every  color, 
And  snatched  at  butterflies  .  .  . 

The  Spring  sun  warmed  her,  the  wind  cooled  her, 
Her  muscles  played  under  the  whiteness,  and  her 

teeth  gleamed  as  she  laughed  .  .  . 
Yet  even  in  her  laughter  was  longing  .  .  . 

All  at  once  her  hand  playing  in  the  grass 
Touched  sharp  a  cold  slippery  snake 
Basking  in  the  sun  .  .  . 

Even  as  she  shrieked,  the  serpent  coiled,  struck  and 
stung  her. 

She  walked  back  slowly  to  the  temple, 

And  now  she  stands  with  the  gray  mothers, 

Part   of  the  ghost  whose  breath   of   flame  is   the 

stars  .  .  . 
Part  of  the  vanished  that  yet  is  here. 


102 


Steps  of  tbe 


STEPS  OF  THE  SKY 

ONCE  by  a  strange  power  I  walked  up  the  steps 
of  the  sky  ... 

Each  step  was  as  tall  as  from  Earth  to  the  sun, 
A  cliff  of  ether. 

I  climbed  a  thousand  steps,  scaled  up  a  thousand 

skies, 

Until  the  wheel  of  the  Milky  Way 
Was  only  a  ring  on  the  finger  of  the  Old  Woman  .  .  . 

For  at  that  great  height 

I  saw  I  was  in  the  hollow  of  a  hand, 

And  in  shadow  through  the  outskirts  of  vastness  I 

saw  dimly  the  body, 
Hugely  naked,  sprawling  in  space  .  .  . 

She  lay,  many-breasted, 

And  at  each  breast  a  Universe  drank  of  her  milk. 


103 


ZTbe  Encircling 


THE  ENCIRCLING 

T    LEFT  the  street  and  the  sun, 
*     And  down  through  the  little  door  I  went  into 
myself. 

Now  I  had  the  ages  to  choose  from  .  .  . 
And  all  worlds  waited  .  .  . 

I  saw  shelves  of  red  rocks, 

Raw  bones  of  the  Earth  sorrowful  before  dawn, 

Risen  from  shadows  .  .  . 

And  on  the  rocks  struggled  in  each  other's  powerful 

arms 

A  naked  man  and  a  naked  woman : 
As  if  two  rocks  assailed  each  other. 

Dawn  began  gray: 

Each  cliff  was  like  a  face  sleeping  in  a  flat  shawl, 

Or  as  a  drowned  face  in  a  moving  water. 

Then  as  dawn  lightened, 

I  saw  that  the  cliffs  were  an  arm,  and  the  rocks  were 
breasts, 

104 


Enctrcltno 


And  far  off  a  mountain  was  the  face  of  an  ancient 

and  wise  woman  .  .  . 
Against  the  breasts  the  man  and  woman  laid  them 

down,  and  drank  like  babes  .  .  . 

And  now  I  saw  that  the  heavens  were  a  large,  dusky 

and  silent  woman, 

Who  stooped  with  swarthy  arms,  holding  the  Earth, 
Earth  holding  her  children  in  the  dawn  .  .  . 

I  climbed  slowly  over  the  ledges, 
Until  in  the  woman's  arms,  I  saw  a  smaller  woman, 
And  in  the  smaller  woman's  arms,  one  yet  smaller, 
And  yet  another,  and  another,  the  smaller  embraced 

by  the  larger, 
Till  eyesight  failed  .  .  . 

I  grew  weary,  laid  me  down : 
Arms  enfolded  me  ... 
I  was  the  tiniest  of  them  all, 

Circled  in  arms  that  were  circled  in  arms  back  to 
the  circling  arms  of  the  mother  heaven. 

I  drank  of  sun,  of  planet,  and  ether  .  .  . 
Until  I  too  rose  and  wrestled  on  the  rocks  with  a 
strong  naked  woman. 
105 


Enctrcltno 


After  which, 

Suddenly  I  saw  the  streets,  the  sun, 

And  I  beheld  myself  in  buttoned  clothes,  and  in  felt 

hat,  and  laced-up  shoes  .  .  . 
Crowds  were  about  me  ... 
But  I  knew  that  they  and  I  were  merely  as  little 

doors 
That  opened  backward  into  the  Mother. 


106 


Hfcventurer 


THE  ADVENTURER 

AST  is  the  Creation  .  .  . 

The  Milky  Way  but  a  ring  of  fire 
Then  where  does  Earth  twinkle  within 


v 


With  its  night  and  its  day, 
The  damp  weathery  ball  smeared  thin  with  life, 
Dropped  many  skies  of  space  in  the  deeps, 
Rolls  through  the  elemental  powers  .  .  . 

As  grass,  a  creature  lifts  from  it — 
That  brave  gentleman, 
That  excellent  adventurer, 
That  hardy  devil —     Man  .  .  . 

He  sees  the  scoffing  grandeur  of  the  stars  so  great 

that  he  is  nothing  looking  up, 
Yet  he  sings,  praising  Life, 

He  chants,  praising  dreadful  and  engulfing  Night, 
As  if  in  his  tininess  he  yet  were  the  god  of  the  world 

that  crushes  him  .  .  . 


107 


TTbe  Hfcventurer 


Ha,  behold,  in  the  float  and  bulk  of  the  Universe, 
The  immense  materiality  of  the  skies, 
Star-knotted  ether, 
Yea,  this  Creation, 

Behold,  the  tiny  creature  it  has  produced  .  .  . 
The  two-legged  dancing  flicker  on  its  rolling  planet, 
Somewhere  down  there,  or  up  there,  lost  in  the  rush 
ing  of  the  suns  .  .  . 

Yet  Creation  holds  this  creature  forth, 
Even  as  its  highest : 
Its  loveliest,  strangest,  vastest, 
Its  whimsical,  beautiful  child  .  .  . 

His  naked  body  against  the  hills  or  dipped  in  ocean, 
This  is  the  heavens  with  all  their  glories  in  brief 
epitome  .  .  . 

Vastness  shrinks  ever  smaller  to  grow  great  .  .  . 
Chaos  rolls  into  suns,  suns  drop  fragments  that  are 

planets, 

And  the  mammoth  shrinks  into  man  .  .  . 
This  little  eye,  this  infinitesimal  nerve, 
This  sensitive  tip  of  the  world, 
This  skull,  with  its  cupful  of  brain, 

108 


Ube  Boventurer 


Into  this  narrow  house  creeps  the  whole  of  Creation, 
And  thus  becomes  human  .  .  . 

Glory  then  to  man, 
The  brave  fist  that  shakes  at  heaven, 
The  lips  that  laugh  at  death, 
The  heart  that  praises  Creation ! 


109 


RHYMES 


Sonnets 


SONNETS 


NIGHT  on  the  'bus-top,  and  a  thin  mist  played 
Down  the  deep  city:  rolling  cumbrously 
We  passed  through  double  rows  of  lamps  which 

made 

The  avenue  a  winged  victory: 
And  gazing  there,  I  wondered  where  I  was : 

Why  stone-hemmed,  mist-closed,  man-surrounded, 

I 

Went  wheeling  on  a  planet  that,  alas ! 
Wandered  engulfed  in  some  infinity. 

But  as  this  strangeness  of  my  flesh  came  to  me, 
And  death  was  real,  and  life  a  dream,  I  gazed 
Into  my  soul,  and  saw  your  image :  through  me 
A  glory  swam,  to  star-heights  I  was  raised: 

Have  I  not  seen  you  brooding  when  you  furled 
Under  your  wings  the  vastness  of  the  world? 


Sonnets 


II 

CVERYWHERE,  everywhere  they  whisper  it, 
*— '  On  car,  in  shop,  and  where  the  corners  meet, 
Or  on  the  sea,  or  in  the  quarry's  pit, 

And  speaking,  eyes  grow  wistful  and  lips  sweet, 
As  suddenly  they  glimpsed  a  Paradise: 

And  "he"  and  "she"  you  hear,  and  "thus  he  said," 
And  this  one  softly  laughs  and  that  one  sighs, 

And  on  old  stories  are  their  starved  hearts  fed. 

When  were  we  robbed  of  glory  in  time's  dawn, 

The  glory  that  descended  to  the  birds*? 
So  that  since  then  we  seek  a  light  withdrawn 

And  feed,  not  on  the  flame,  but  on  sweet  words? 
For  all  the  unhappy  world,  in  lieu  thereof, 
Whispers  the  dream,  whispers  the  dream  of  love. 


114 


Sonnets 


III 

TJARK,  how  my  heart  sang  in  the  morning  watches 
*  *  As  from  dark  sleep  I  opened  into  light 
And  found  the  world  wild  with  the  wind-blown 
snatches 

Of  music  and  sunshine,  and  the  flight,  the  flight 
Of  life  down  the  shadowy  streets:  and  my  heart 
bounded 

Laughing  to  be  alive,  and  marveling  why 
Young  June,  as  by  a  rind  of  glory  rounded, 

Struck  with  a  radiance  all  reality. 

Then  as  I  came  up  from  the  bath  of  slumber, 

Sun-fresh,  and  all  my  brain  and  heart  awoke, 
Laughing,  my  soul  began  a  golden  number 

Of  song,  and  two  suns  through  my  heavens  broke, 
Then  knew  I  why  the  blowing  and  the  blue 
Struck  through  me,  splendor.     Darling,  I  love 
you. 


Sonnets 


IV 

A    PERFECT  day  draws  to  a  perfect  end: 
**•     The  heavens  are  shining  and  the  city  lies 
Against  the  sunset  like  a  smiling  friend 

Listening  to  talk  that  is  both  sweet  and  wise: 
And  in  an  easy  revery  in  the  park 

The  people,  clean  of  toil,  sprawl  at  their  ease : 
The  day  dissolves  into  the  comforting  dark: 

Peace,  O  ye  People,  whispers  heaven,  Peace ! 

Above  old  heads  the  silent  skies  are  sown 

With  moon  and  stars :  and  girls  are  drawn  to  boys : 
The  hour  is  full  of  the  faint  but  poignant  tone 
Of  echoes  of  old  loves,  old  dreams,  old  joys  .  .  . 
Memory  in  her  arms  gathers  all  Life, 
And  love  lays  gentle  hands  on  pain  and  strife. 


116 


Sonnets 


WE  die  like  children,  children  smothered  out, 
And  wailing  at  the  dread  of  the  unknown, 
And  trying  by  every  loophole,  in  the  rout 
Of  panic,  to  escape :  yet  we  were  sown 
Like  the  perishable  seed  of  grass  and  grain, 

And  the  very  secret  of  our  glory  lies 
In  this  wild  transcience :  to  be  raised  and  slain 
Is  Life's  way  to  evolve  the  growing  skies. 

Our  greatness  grew  on  death :  were  the  Past  not  dust 

It  were  a  yoke  to  hold  us  back :  so  we 
For  our  children  must  be  downward  thrust : 

"Make  way  for  Life,"  cries  Life :  then  why  not, 

free, 

And  like  fine  gods,  accepting  Life's  intent, 
Will,  when  our  time  comes,  our  own  descent'? 


117 


Sonnets 


VI 

'""THE  wind  is  blowing  dreams  to  me.     It  eddies 
*     Through  pools  of  green,  with  shadows  flying 

and  sun: 
Now  for  a  moment  the  great  oak-bough  steadies, 

Then  rocks  in  the  gale,  and  rustling  laughters  run 
Along  leaping  leaves:     I  hear  the  varying  blowing 

Of  whistles,  great  cries  torn  away  and  thinned : 
Life  comes  in  gusts,  and  with  its  wild  heart  glowing 
The  city  is  like  a  runaway  in  the  wind. 

Dreams !     We  are  at  the  prow  of  the  plunging  ship, 
Swerving  through  blue  seas,  and  we  lean  to  the 

foam, 

We  roll  to  the  rolling  leagues,  we  mount  and  dip, 
Sun-winds  swing  us,  and  the  sea  is  home, 

Home  of  the  wanderers,  home  of  the  untamed 

rovers, 
Home,  under  star  and  sun,  of  runaway  lovers. 


118 


Sonnets 


VII 

DOLD  must  we  be  and  unafraid  of  delight; 
*~*  Sorrow's  slaves  are  ever  slow  to  rebel: 
What,  do  we  love  our  chains  and  the  grim  night? 

What  are  we  afraid  of,  who  can  tell? 
Is  it  the  Dark  One  coming  to  destroy 

Laughter  and  love  with  death,  with  doubt,  with 

pain? 
But  I  tell  you  that  the  heart  of  love  is  joy 

And  by  Joy's  lightnings  death  himself  is  slain  .'  .  . 

Creation  struggled  long  millenniums 

To  wake  into  laughter:  but  the  great  tide  moves 
Ever  toward  Joy :  and  Laughter's  empire  comes 
Through  Man's  great  daring  and  his  godlike  loves : 
O  let  us  send  our  spirits  through  new  deeps 
With  all  that  shines  and  sings  and  laughs  and 
leaps. 


119 


Sonnets 


VIII 

WE  take  the  wings  of  morning  over  the  moun 
tains 

And  call  the  darkened  valleys  up  from  fear: 
Why,  cry  our  trumpets,  are  ye  stopped,  ye  foun 
tains? 

Why,  O  ye  millions,  are  ye  stooped  and  drear? 
Lift  up  your  gates,  and  let  your  gates  be  lifted, 

And  draw  the  everlasting  doors  apart  .  .  . 
For  look,  the  scenery  of  life  is  shifted : 

He  sings  with  joy  who  has  a  warrior  heart  .  .  . 

Risk  all  for  love :  depart  from  ancient  sorrow 

And  follow  the  sun  unto  its  highest  slope : 
Plunge  with  your  whole  soul  into  the  new  morrow, 
And  make  your  wings  strong  Joy  and  splendid 

Hope: 

By  such  a  flight  against  impossible  odds, 
Though  ye  be  slain,  yet  ye  shall  go  as  gods. 


120 


Sonnets 


IX 

I   SING  the  new  word  Joy  unto  the  people : 
*      I  would  I  were  a  herald  like  the  sun, 
A  bell-ringer  in  the  world's  high  steeple 

To  fling  and  ring  this  message  to  every  one: 
Better  to  die  than  live  a  life  that 's  sullen, 

What  is  your  heart's  flame  for,  save  to  be  spent? 
Go  study  the  grass,  the  wild-rose  and  the  mullein; 

Are  they,  creation's  children,  with  pain  bent^ 

There  's  love  for  all,  there  's  joy  to  overflowing, 

Morning  and  earth  and  the  night's  heart  o'errun 
But  only  the  bold  young  god  in  his  glad  going 
Shall  win  from  these  the  might  of  Earth  and  sun : 
There  's  joy  in  pain  for  him  who  is  creating, 
There  's  love  in  hate  when  daring  hearts  are 
mating. 


121 


Sonnets 


KEEN  is  the  radiant  world  as  if  it  gloried 

In  my  darling  where  she  walks  among  the  corn : 
And  though  Earth,  kissing  her  feet,  with  joy  is 

hurried, 

It  hurries  gently  that  she  be  safely  borne : 
Around  her  dance  the  girlish  summer  hours 

Adding  their  loveliness  to  her  fleet  grace: 
She  crowns  the  fields  with  beauty  and  she  dowers 
Earth  and  the  sky  with  a  new  human  face. 

How  from  the  Earth  has  she  emerged  and  wanders 

As  if  the  planet  stole  forth,  seeking  love? 
A  sense  of  tears  troubles  my  heart  that  ponders 
Over  this  marvel :  but  as  I  watch  her  move 
She  lifts  her  love-lit  eyes  to  mine,  and  I 
Grow  radiant  as  the  Earth,  the  fields,  the  sky. 


122 


Sonnets 


XI 

T   KNOW  how  God  was  born :  I  know  what  yearn 
ing 

Made  him  divine :  man  shaped  him  out  of  man : 
For  from  his  heart  flowed  love  without  returning: 

All  human  love  was  under  Earth's  dark  ban: 
And  finding  neither  man  nor  child  nor  woman 

With  understanding  and  enfolding  love: 
He  wrought  of  phantasy  the  Superhuman : 

All-Wise,  All-Loving:  not  beneath — above! 

I  know  the  ecstasy,  the  adoration 

That   rolled   in   hymns,   and  moved   in  mighty 

prayer : 

I  know  the  joy  of  union  with  Creation: 
I  know  the  bliss  devout  believers  bear: 

All  that  man  longs  for  I  have  found  in  thee : 
Art  thou  not  life?    And  what  else  may  God  be? 


123 


Sonnets 


XII 

NT OW  golden  October,  crowned  with  the  grape,  is 
singing, 

While  the  javelin  winds  against  the  woods  are 

hurled, 
Glorious  from  the  blue  the  sun  is  flinging 

His  rain-rinsed  brilliance  on  the  vivid  world: 
And  the  wine-mad  month  in  red  and  gold  regalia, 

Scattering  leaves,  sowing  valley  and  hill, 
Goes  out  dancing  to  death  in  a  Bacchanalia, 

Laughing,  singing,  for  she  dies  with  a  will. 

Fully  lived  has  the  year,  so  she  dies  in  laughter : 

For  all  that  spends  itself,  is  ready  for  death  .  .  . 
O  my  beloved,  let  us  live  hereafter, 

Pour  ourselves  in  each  other,  spend  our  breath, 
Love  in  the  uttermost  loving,  so  that  when 

quaffing 

Death's  black  liquor,  we  toast  one  another, 
laughing. 


124 


HClbat  Sinos  tbe  Eartb? 


WHAT  SINGS  THE  EARTH? 

WHAT  sings  the  Earth  to  the  Sun? 
Lover,  sings  she, 
Thou  art  that  glorious  one 

Who  lifteth  radiantly 
My  life  unto  the  light : 

Yea,  so  I  overrun: 

Such  love  is  infinite, 

Beloved  Sun  .  .  . 


What  sings  the  flower  to  the  bee? 

Lover,  she  sings, 
The  kiss  thou  givest  me 

Giveth  me  also  wings, 
That  I,  by  scattering  wild, 

Gain  immortality: 
Such  love  begets  the  child, 

Beloved  bee  .  .  . 


125 


TKIlbat  Slugs  tbe  Bartb? 


What  singeth  woman  and  man? 

Love,  love,  sing  they, 
A  sun  art  thou  to  span 

And  pierce  my  waiting  clay : 
And  wings  that  fly  past  death : 

And  more :  for  through  thee  moved 
Am  I,  as  breath  through  breath, 

O  my  beloved ! 


126 


Sun*IDown 


SUN-DOWN 

/^OLDEN-WINGED,  the  sun 

^— *  With  trailing  clouds,  sinks  under 
The  windy  heavens  run 

As  seeking  western  cover: 
And  in  the  garden  wander 

The  loved  one  and  the  lover  .  .  . 
Darling,  day  is  done: 
Golden-winged,  the  sun 

With  trailing  clouds,  sinks  under. 


127 


IRfse,  for  tbe  Dag 


RISE,  FOR  THE  DAY 

D ISE,  for  the  day 

^  With  splendor  lights  the  mountains, 
The  stars  in  hoods  of  gray 
Have  stolen  away  like  nuns 
Before  the  sun's  bright  fountains  .  .  . 
Behold,  a  city  lies 
Triumphant  in  sunrise, 
Behold,  the  gold 

Spilled  on  her  peaks  of  granite  .  .  . 
Creation's  song  is  rolled, 
Creation's  song  is  rolled 
Around  the  glowing  planet. 

Rise,  for  the  morn 

With  glory  wakes  the  valley, 

On  golden  grandeur  borne 

The  lifted  corn,  the  pine 

To  the  loud  sunshine  rally  .  .  . 

Up !  the  shouting  gale 

Gives  the  world  all-hail, 

Up,  up !  the  cup 

128 


IRtse,  for  tbe 


Of  joy  is  overflowing  .  .  . 
Earth,  sky  are  one  dew-drop, 
Earth,  sky  are  one  dew-drop 
In  glad  abysses  blowing  .  .  . 

Rise,  and  put  on 
A  joy  your  soul  adorning, 
You  darling  of  the  dawn ! 
The  night  is  gone,  and  blows 
The  radiant  rose  of  morning 
Come,  for  the  world 
Is  only  half-unfurled, 
Come,  come !  the  hum 
Of  longing  Earth  is  moved, 
For  heaven's  lips  are  dumb, 
For  heaven's  lips  are  dumb 
Till  they  sing  you,  beloved ! 


129 


witb  tbe  Sea 


TRYST  WITH  THE  SEA 

HTHE  legless  beggar-man  sat  in  his  chair, 
*     There  where  the  gray  sand  runs  to  the  sea; 
I  stopped  for  a  word  in  the  wintry  air, 

And  he  pointed  a  young  girl  out  to  me  ... 

Her  eyes  were  a  dull  blue,  wistful  and  wan, 
Her  light  hair  curved  round  her  oval  cheeks  . 

In  a  deep  trouble  she  wandered  on 

As  one  who  knows  not  the  thing  she  seeks  .  . 

Out  of  the  cramped  and  the  crowded  rooms, 
Out  of  the  careless  streets  she  came, 

Out  of  lost  love  or  the  noise  of  looms, 

Trailing  a  shadow  of  lonesome  shame  .  .  . 

Was  it  a  tryst  with  the  sea  she  kept? 

Soon  she  was  lost  where  the  sands  ran  out : 
So  I  asked  the  beggar-man  where  she  crept 

Whom  never  a  soul  seemed  to  care  about  .  . 


130 


TTrgst  witb  tbe  Sea 


And  the  beggar-man  told  me  girls  go  down, 
When  twilight  falls,  to  the  rocks  of  the  sea  .  . 

The  slow  tide  mounts  and  the  young  girls  drown: 
So  the  gray  ocean  sets  them  free. 


WAR 


1914— anb  Hfter 


1914— AND  AFTER 

I 

T  AM  caught  helpless  in  the  suffering  of  the 
world : 

Wherever  I  turn  I  find  the  person  next  to  me  tor 
tured  ; 

Drop  by  drop  his  heart  bleeds : 

Women  weep  in  the  lonely  darkness,  the  bleak  men 
stare  at  the  unrelenting  night, 

And  children  cry  for  healing. 

What  may  the  heart-hungry  do? 
What  may  the  poor  do, 

And  they  whose  dreams  go  down  in  the  wastage  of 
the  years'? 

Perhaps  I,  too,  have  thrown  away  my  life  for  noth 
ing: 

Hours  and  years  of  dream-scourged  labor  and  bitter 
action  erased  and  lost: 

Yet  I  am  a  man : 

I  have  my  compensations: 

135 


1914— ant)  Hfter 


But  these  others? 

These  without  faith,  without  hope:  these  that  are 
children,  crying  for  comfort: 

What  help  for  them*?  what  healing? 

And  now  million-numbered  worlds  go  mad  and  de 
stroy  each  other: 

Lost,  lost,  are  the  innumerable  .  .  . 

Little  I,  what  am  I,  that  can  do  nothing? 

I  am  caught  helpless  in  the  suffering  of  the  world. 


136 


1914— anb  Hfter 


II 

T  WANDERED  over  the  landscape  of  Europe: 
*     The  cities  were  clean  and  proud,  and  the  masses 

were  tame  and  servile: 
The  gardens  were  sweet:  there  was  a  quiet  comfort 

in  the  evening  pleasures: 
Gigantic  were  the  steel  cranes  in  the  harbor  where 

the  mammoth  shipping  lay: 
Splendid  the  pipes  of  the  congregated  mills  poured 

their  black  vapors  over  the  towns  .  .  . 

Peace !     This  was  Peace ! 

But  Europe  was  merely  a  pleasant  landscape  over 

Hell: 
And  Civilization  seemed  as  a  woman  grown  calm 

and  mellow : 
As  if  she  had  forgotten, 
Forgotten  Earth  which  functions  not  alone  through 

the  ripening  fruit  and  the  tranquillity  of  the 

grass  and  the  contemplative  mind, 
But  also  through  storm,  flood,  fire  and  volcano. 


137 


1914— anD  Hfter 


Woe  to  the  nation  that  looks  for  peace  in  quietness : 

Policed  peace  is  impending  war : 

Well-ordered  cities,  and  beautiful  gardens,  and 
smooth  manners  avail  not : 

Starved  hearts,  starved  freedoms  avail  not : 

Slavery  in  the  mills  and  the  streets  avail  not: 

Neither  is  it  of  avail  to  compress  the  individual  into 
the  tight  mass: 

To  drill  the  population  in  obedience,  silence,  and 
drudging  toil, 

All  these  make  war  the  alluring  adventure,  the  es 
cape: 

Lo,  the  primitive,  starved,  roars  in  the  jungle,  snaps 
all  chains,  and  hunts  hungrily  for  blood  .  .  . 

Welcome  then,  War! 

Welcome  this  rebirth  of  the  world,  in  terror,  havoc 

and  desolation: 

The  woman,  Civilization,  gives  birth  to  a  child  .  .  . 
This  is  the  birth-year  of  the  world  .  .  . 
Wonderful  shall  shine  the  little  one  ... 


138 


1914— ant)  Hftct 


III 

i 

HANG  the  hills  with  black, 
And  blacken  the  early  violets  with  the  blood 

of  the  young: 

What  want  we  with  a  Spring  of  fragrant  farmlands, 
Gardens,  smokes  of  the  brush, 
And  healing  rains'? 

Let  the  birds,  the  winds  and  the  sea 

Sing  no  more  the  loves  of  mating,  and  the  marriage 

chants  of  Spring  .  .  . 
But   mournfully   pipe    dirges    of   broadcast    tragic 

death. 


What  want  we  with  £he  Spring? 

We  have  cast  in  roaring  foundries  the  dark-bored 

steel, 
And  like  gods  have  snatched  the  chemical  might  of 

the  Earth, 

And  devised  a  killing  and  a  crime  .  .  . 

139 


1914— ano  Hftet 


Out  of  the  murder  of  our  hearts,  we  have  wrought 

great  havoc  .  .  . 

Sinking  of  ships  at  sea,  and  the  toppling  of  cities, 
And  the  mowing  of  living  hosts! 

What  want  we  with  the  Spring*? 

3 

Patiently  the  millions  wrought: 

With  sacrificial  hands,  and  suffering  vision, 

Chaos  became  a  city,  a  ship,  a  school  .  .  . 

Steadily  the  gates  of  pain  were  battered, 
And  the  gates  of  darkness  assailed, 
And  the  waste  of  spirit  striven  with. 

And  the  young  went  forth  crying :    Spring !    Spring ! 
Hope  dawns !     A  glory ! 
We  are  shaping  a  marvel  in  the  skies ! 
Man  becomes  god:  this  is  the  morning  and  the  first 
day  of  Creation ! 


140 


1914— anb  Hftcr 


4 

Spring? 

The  hosts  contend  together: 
Cities  are  become  dust-heaps: 
The  young  god,  the  Creator, 
Has  turned  fury  and  fiend,  the  Destroyer  .  .  . 

Strange  sowing  of  seed  goes  on: 
This  is  the  year  when  we  sow  the  Earth  with  the 
flesh  of  young  men  .  .  . 

5 

Black!  black!  black! 

We  have  blasted  away  in  a  day, 

Our  own  children  .  .  . 

We  have  gone  mad,  killing  the  young, 
Slaying  the  hope  of  the  world  .  .  . 

Now  youth  leaves  his  dream  and  his  toil  and  his 

quickening  love 
To  kill  or  to  die  ... 
O  short-lived  generation! 
Debauch  of  blood! 

Folly  and  sin! 

141 


10H-an&  after 


6 

No  more  of  it! 

Take  away  Spring,  and  give  over  the  planet  to  a 

moon's  death,  a  frozen  death: 
Our  Earth  deserves  extinction, 
With  her  rotten  breed  of  men  .  .  . 

7 

So  I  cried,  and  in  rage  and  grief  went  forth  through 

the  city, 
The  New- World  City  of  Peace  .  .  . 

8 

I  passed  a  prison  .  .  . 

Broken  men  decayed  in  the  damp. 

I  passed  a  mill  .  .  . 

Children  and  pale  women  peered  wistfully  from  the 
windows  .  .  . 

I  passed  a  hospital  .  .  . 

Human  wreckage  sunned  there  beside  the  morgue. 

I  walked  through  stinking  slums  .  .  . 
Children  nosed  in  the  garbage. 

142 


19H— an&  Hfter 


9 

Then  I  went  to  the  home  of  a  friend, 

And  found  darkness  .  .  . 

Husband  and  wife  were  slowly  slaying  each  other: 

Slaying  with  love. 

The  woman  whispered  to  me : 
"God !  could  I  go  to  the  war !  go  to  the  war  and  be 
killed!" 

10 

Then  I  looked  in  my  own  breast  .  .  . 

And  I  said:     What  war  is  this  I  am  bitter  against*? 

Behold,  the  poison  of  my  soul  that  destroys  peace 
about  me, 

Behold,  the  bayonet  of  my  hate,  and  the  fumes  of 
my  bestiality: 

The  contending  armies  of  lusts  and  shames  and  in 
trigues  : 

The  sentries  of  dark  sin  ... 

In  this  little  world  of  Self  I  saw  the  big: 
In  my  own  breast  I  found  war  and  disaster  and  ship- 
sinking, 

The  death  of  faith  and  of  hope  .  .  . 

H3 


1014— an&  Hftet 


Behold,  in  myself  I  found  Man: 

Who  since  the  beginning  has  been  this  advancing 

conflict  .  .  . 
Ever  thus  .  .  . 

11 

Then  is  it  marvel  no  peace  is  on  Earth? 
Where  is  the  Man  of  Peace? 

Shall  I  be  crushed  then  by  the  horror  of  blood  and 

carrion? 
By  wholesale  carnage? 

12 

Dark  in  a  world  of  darkness,  I  left  the  city; 

And  then  I  saw, 

O  ancient  and  new  miracle  .  .  . 

Resistless,  laughing  at  death,  overruling  decay, 
Earth  silently  lifted  life  .  .  . 

Impassive  and  calm  lay  the  heaps  of  the  hills, 
And  steadily  rising, 

Green  pierced  through,  and  the  soil  steamed,  and 
the  birds  nested. 

144 


1914— anO  Hftcr 


There  was  the  farmer-boy  plowing, 

And  there  the  young  wife  airing  the  house, 

And  close  to  the  handled  mud  the  absorbed  faces  of 

children  .  .  . 
Lo,  thought  I,  Earth  holds  to  her  hope  .  .  . 

13 

Then  I  greeted  the  hills  .  .  . 
O  let  them  be  mantled  with  green,  I  said, 
And  let  beauty  hang  from  the  boughs  .  .  . 
Increase  the  laughter  of  children, 
String  the  cities  with  color  and  glory, 
Lift  a  music  .  .  . 

Once  were  the  heavens  a  blackness, 

Then  blazed  a  sun  forth  .  .  . 

In  the  Earth's  blackness,  O  tragic  struggler,   roll 

forth  your  splendid  sun  : 
Fight  darkness  with  light, 
Destruction  with  creation. 


Have  cities  toppled  and  ships  been  sunk? 
Build!  build! 


1914-anfc  Hftet 


Is  youth  slain*? 

Beget  new  children  of  flesh  and  of  toil 

Beget  a  new  self  of  splendor  .  .  . 

Have  hopes  died? 
Kindle  new  ones  .  .  . 

Has  man  fallen? 
You,  man,  arise  .  .  . 


146 


1914-anfc  Hfter 


w 


IV 

IOULD  you  end  war*? 
Create  great  Peace  . 


You  rave  at  the  war,  do  you4? 

Do  you  know  that  the  war  has  struck  in  the  face 

with  a  fist 
A  race  of  clerks, 
And  turned  them  to  men? 
The    flabby    boys    of    London    died    athletes    at 

Ypres  .  .  . 
The  Lords  of  large  estates  proved  in  their  deaths 

equality  .  .  . 

Vast  millions  have  ceased  to  whimper  over  the  coffee 
at  breakfast, 

And  ceased  from  family  cowardice, 

And  from  industrial  bondage, 

And  now  the  mother  gives  the  son  she  feared  to  re 
lease  for  a  night's  adventure, 

And  the  man  who  demanded  safety  first  leads  the 
charge  from  the  trenches, 

And  life  is  so  real  that  men  are  ready  to  lose  it  ... 

H7 


1914— anb  Hftct 


For  in  war  they  have  found  Peace: 

The  Peace  with  oneself,  the  being  used  for  a  great 
purpose, 

The  releasing  of  the  spirit  in  the  heart,  and  its  vic 
torious  sweep  in  the  soul, 

The  assertion  of  manhood,  which  means  courage, 
hardness,  discipline  and  adventure. 

Such  is  Peace  .  .  . 

But  that  which  we  call  Peace? 

This  monstrous  machine  that  weakens  millions  in 

factories, 
This  lust  of  money  for  its  own  sake:  to  swell  one's 

social  stomach  larger  than  one's  neighbor's  .  .  . 
This  poor  little  personal  strife  and  family  pride, 
This  softness  of  muscle  and  cowardice  of  spirit  .  .  . 
Is  this  Peace? 

Is  merely  keeping  alive,  Peace? 
Better  the  young  die  greatly  than  live  weakly  .  .  . 

Would  you  end  war? 

Create  great  Peace  .  .  . 

The  Peace  that  demands  all  of  a  man, 

His  love,  his  life,  his  veriest  self; 


148 


1914— ano  Hfter 


Plunge  him  in  the  smelting  fires  of  a  work  that  be 
comes  his  child, 

Coerce  him  to  be  himself  at  all  hazards:  with  the 
toil  and  the  mating  that  belong  to  him: 

Compel  him  to  serve  .  .  . 

Give  him  a  hard  Peace:  a  Peace  of  discipline  and 
justice  .  .  . 

Kindle  him  with  vision,  invite  him  to  joy  and  ad 
venture  : 

Set  him  at  work,  not  to  create  things 

But  to  create  men: 

Yea,  himself. 

Go  search  your  heart,  America  .  .  . 

Turn  from  the  machine  to  man, 

Build,  while  there  is  yet  time,  a  creative  Peace  .  .  . 

While  there  is  yet  time !  .  .  . 

For  if  you  reject  great  Peace, 

As  surely  as  vile  living  brings  disease, 

So  surely  shall  your  selfishness  bring  war. 


149 


<S>ut 


OUT! 

abashed  Self,  admit  one  thing: 
You  have  been  indoors  too  much  of  late  .  .  . 
You  should  have  been  out  wrestling  with  the  sun, 
Or  running  races  with  the  rolling  Earth  .  .  . 

Where's  the  old  smell  of  you,  when,  nostrils  di 
lated, 

You  were  drenched  with  sea-salt  and  soil-odor? 

Where  's  the  lusty  tang  of  your  voice,  cleansed  by 
strong  winds'? 

Your  sun-burnt  cheek? 

And  the  animal  magic  of  your  eyes? 

Out  of  the  house  with  you  .  .  . 
Into  the  water !     Into  the  sky ! 
Over  the  hills! 


150 


Danctno  Bops 


DANCING  BOYS 

'"PWO  boys  dancing  at  bedtime  .  .  . 
•*•     One  of  them  was  mine. 

They  were  naked:  of  shapeliest  grace  of  body:  and 

lightness  of  foot  .  .  . 
Waving  their  hands,  crooking  their  knees,  they  wove 

in  and  out, 
With  improvised  pattern,  spontaneous  design  .  .  . 

The  yellow  hair  of  one,  the  black  hair  of  the  other, 

shook  free  and  wild: 
Their  cheeks  glowed :  their  eyes  sparkled :  their  lips 

opened  in  laughter: 
Like  little  savages,  like  Indian  boys  naked  in  the 

moonlight. 

Two  boys  dancing  at  bedtime  .  .  . 
One  of  them  was  mine. 


Eartb's  OLau0bter 


EARTH'S  LAUGHTER 
HTHE  laughter  of  the  Earth:  such  are  children. 

When  I  come  to  meet  you,  I  hear  your  glad  shout 

from  behind  the  house, 
Then  you  come  running,  bursting  with  ecstasy,  down 

the  footpath  to  greet  me  ... 
(Ten  minutes  later,  you  have  forgotten  that  I  am 

there!) 

When  we  walk  together, 

I  shrink,  in  my  mind,  to  your  size:  yea,  shrink 
straight  into  you: 

And  I  see  the  miracles  .  .  . 

Then  is  the  laying  of  shingles  on  a  roof  a  world- 
event, 

And  waiting  for  a  locomotive  to  pass,  a  crisis  in 
life  .  .  . 

Ice  forming  in  the  swamp  is  a  mystery  worthy  of 
study, 

And  the  flight  of  a  bird  a  wild  wonder  .  .  . 

The  laughter  of  the  Earth:  such  are  children. 

152 


1Re\v  <3oo 


THE  NEW  GOD 

I 

HE  comes  in  darkness 
Bringing  the  day-star  in  the  glance  of  his  eyes. 

O  you  constellations  of  the  night, 
Twelve-charted  heavens  of  the  crowds  of  kings, 
O  burning  stars, 
From  your  eastern  depths  the  young  god  of  the 

Earth 

Rises,  and  drowns  you  in  his  glory, 
And  ascends  our  heaven 
Our  nre-bringer,  our  delight  of  life,  our  god,  our  sun. 

He  comes,  slayer  of  night, 

And  the  sea  shouts,  lifting  her  white  arms  to  his 

quick  embrace, 

Continents  of  blossoms  open  and  drink  his  kiss : 
Earth's  children,  the  sons  of  men,  waken,  and  go 

forth  to  toil: 
The  lovers  waken,  and  turn  to  each  other  amazed 

at  the  laughter  on  their  meeting  lips, 
153 


ZTbe  IRew 


So  in  the  midnight  watch, 

My  soul,  longing, 

My  soul,  longing  as  a  sky  of  ineffectual  stars  long, 

Greets  my  god,  my  genius, 

Where  he  rises  as  the  day-star  in  my  depths, 

Opening  the  future, 

Lifting  vision, 

And  I  see  what  self  may  be 

Beyond,  beyond  man  .  .  . 

So  self's  night-sky  gives  the  birth  to  a  sun: 
The  god  that  I  follow. 


154 


TIbe  IRew 


II 

DACK-GAZERS  have  half-gods: 

J— '  They  kneel  to  Egyptian  Earth  with  Karnak- 

thoughts, 

Or  go  ways  of  Olympian  youth  .  .  . 
Dragged  are  their  souls  to  the  gods  behind  man, 
And  kings  of  the  dead  .  .  . 

Peace,  they  cry  for,  and  burial,  and  the  mother's 
womb. 

I  too  love  old  fountains: 

I  am  lulled  too  by  the  tidal  song  of  womb-waters: 
David  haunts  me  with  his  singing  in  the  desert, 
And  old  wizards  send  their  spells  on  my  tired  heart. 

I  am  nothing  loathe  to  drink  Earth,  Sun  and  Stars, 
To  sniff  henna,  and  taste  manna,  and  sip  mead; 
I  know  the  riches  of  catacombs, 
And  I  too  feed  on  the  great  dead. 

But  for  me  this  is  breakfast  before  battle, 
And  I  know,  by  my  soul's  thirst,  I  must  rise  up 
from  sacrificial  caves, 
155 


TTbe  IRew 


I  must  go  from  the  magic  back-world, 
To  the  fore-world,  and  beyond  the  world, 
Where  sweat  falls  on  the  waters,  and  blood  manures 

the  soil, 
And  greedy  flesh  fights  round  me. 

But  I  see  beyond  the  battle, 

Past  smoke,  fumes  and  fallen  soldiers, 

Visions  that  make  Greece  but  a  promise, 

And  Karnak  but  a  hint, 

And  where  the  mighty  men  of  old 

Are  but  children  to  the  gods  beyond  man, 

To  the  self  that  calls  me. 

His  shining  is  in  the  future, 

His  face  gleams  and  goes  in  the  visions  of  the  night : 
But  seeing  him,  I  follow: 
To  him  I  pray: 

He  is  my  god,  and  my  greatest  god,  and  I  unfold 
toward  his  divinity. 

A  Future-God  is  mine: 

He  is  my  child,  in  whose  consummate  maturity  I 

shall  stand  as  his  child: 
He  calls:  I  follow. 


ZTbe  "flew  (Boo 


III 

T  PROTEST  against  the  engines, 

*     And  I  am  at  odds  with  their  father,  the  chemist : 

I  am  against  all  who  see  only  the  machinery  of  the 

heavens  .  .  . 

Their  gods  are  the  gods  of  the  naked  savage, 
Even  sticks  and  stones  .  .  . 

Though  an  idol  be  wrought  of  steel  it  is  still  an 
idol  .  .  . 

Splendor  is  in  machinery: 

The  wheeling  of  the  star-bolted  car  of  the  heavens, 

And  the  interplay  of  muscles  in  an  athlete's  arm, 

Such  make  an  arena  of  glory 

For  the  works  of  man,  .  .  . 

But  among  the  engines  one  goeth  with  a  divine  fore 
head, 

He  is  nimble  to  slip  among  the  rods,  and  cunning 
to  cast  them: 

He  drives:  the  floods  part  and   foam  before  his 
prow  .  .  . 

157 


<Sot> 


He  has  builded  a  street  in  space,  and  hung  a  city 

in  the  mid-heavens: 

His  roadside  is  the  Earth,  and  his  lamp  the  sun: 
In  this  street,  on  this  road,  he  laughs  though  the 

stars  are  silent, 
He  sings,  though  ocean  sleeps  .  .  . 

I  dwell  inside  his  radiance: 

It  is  a  region  of  visions  and  a  sky  of  wonder: 

From  a  certain  darkness  in  time  timeless  I  have 

opened  into  this  glory: 
Here  I  laugh,  sing,  and  weep: 
I  am  he,  and  he  is  I  ... 

My  god  is  the  living  god,  even  Life  .  .  . 
My  street  is  Earth  and  my  tower-light  the  sun: 
Engines  are  the  quickener  of  my  steps, 
And  with  sticks  and  stones  I  build. 


158 


Tlbe  Hew  (3o& 


IV 

IN  the  white  slant  of  day  I  wander; 

*   Sunlight  reveals  me  as  only  another  man  in  the 

fields; 
Perhaps  he  smiles  at  the  fluttering  thrush  whose 

store  of  song  is  spilled; 
And  the  hills  regard  him  as  one  more  stone  in  their 

swallowing  spaciousness. 

But  this  man  is  a  walking  radiance, 

His  eye,  by  magic,  envelopes  the  sun-spiked  heavens 

and  the  silent  hills: 
And  his  spirit's  eye  reaches  beyond  the  fire-painted 

sky-blue 

And  snares  the  stars  with  the  lasso  of  a  thought  .  .  . 
The  morning  is  in  him:  he  walks  large  with  it. 

He  brings  news: 

He  carries  across  the  field  with  him  the  garnered 

greatnesses  of  dead  millenniums, 
Man,  beast  and  Earth  are  carried : 


159 


IFlew 


And  he  grows  among  the  corn  swifter  than  corn 

grows, 
Flinging  beyond  the  hills,  beyond  the  sun,  beyond 

the  future, 
Vision  of  a  god  .  .  . 

He  is  that  god's  seed  swelling  with  that  god  to 

be  ... 

When  that  the  seed  opens  out, 
And  it  blossoms  and  bears  fruit, 
Watered  and  warmed  by  ages  new, 
This  seed  shall  be  that  god. 


160 


Ubc  flew  (Bofc 


YE  morning-glories,  ring  in  the  gale  your  bells, 
And  with  dew  water  the  walk's  dust  for  the 

burden-bearing  ants: 
Ye  swinging  spears  of  the  larkspur,  open  your  wells 

of  gold 
And  pay  your  honey-tax  to  the  hummingbird  .  .  . 

O  now  I  see  by  the  opening  ot  blossoms, 
And  of  bills  of  the  hungry  fledglings, 
And  the  bright  travel  of  sun-drunk  insects, 
Morning's  business  is  afoot:  Earth  is  busied  with  a 
million  mouths! 

Where  goes  eaten  grass  and  thrush-snapped  dragon 
fly? 

Creation  eats  itself,  to  spawn  in  swarming  sun- 
rays  .  .  . 

Bull  and  cricket  go  to  it:  life  lives  on  lite  .  .  . 


161 


IRew 


But  O,  ye  flame-daubed  irises,  and  ye  hosts  of  gnats, 
Like  a  well  of  light  moving  in  morning's  light, 
What  is  this  garmented  animal  that  comes  eating 

and  drinking  among  you? 
What  is  this  upright  one,  with  spade  and  with 

shears? 

He  is  the  visible  and  the  invisible, 

Behind  his  mouth  and  his  eyes  are  other  mouth  and 
eyes  .  .  . 

Thirster  after  visions 

He  sees  the  flowers  to  their  roots  and  the  Earth 
back  through  its  silent  ages: 

He  parts  the  sky  with  his  gaze : 

He  flings  a  magic  on  the  hills,  clothing  them  with 
Upanishad  music, 

Peopling  the  valley  with  dreamed  images  that  van 
ished  in  Greece  millenniums  back; 

And  in  the  actual  morning,  out  of  longing  shapes 
on  the  hills 

To-morrow's  golden  grandeur  .  .  . 


162 


TTbe  Hew  (Bob 


O  ye  million  hungerers  and  ye  sun-rays 

Ye  are  the  many  mothers  of  this  invisible  god, 

This  Earth's  star  and  sun  that  rises  singing  and 

toiling  among  you, 
This  that  is  I,  in  joy,  in  the  garden, 
Singing  to  you,  ye  morning-glories, 
Calling  to  you,  ye  swinging  spears  of  the  larkspur. 


163 


flew  Gob 


VI 

OONG  swung  the  spheres 

^  And  their  travel  was  a  harmony  .  .  . 

The  sun  with  rosy  fingers  twanged  the  strings  of 

seven  planets  .  .  . 
And  every  seed  and  animal 
Was  caught  up  in  the  song  .  .  . 
And  struggle  was  but  the  minor  key 
Tuned  to  the  spheric  strains. 

Man  lifted  up, 

His  feet  caught  in  that  music, 

But  from  the  cyclic  rhythm  he  broke  striving  to  be 

a  god  .  .  . 

So  half  of  him  was  planetary 
And  half  of  him  was  man  .  .  . 
And  self  'gainst  self  made  harsh  discord 
Against  the  heavenly  song  .  . 

Man  shall  be  song 
When  he  lifts  beyond  the  planetary, 
When  he  travels  away  from  the  dark  Earth  with 
the  beast  lifted  by  love, 
164 


Hew 


And  all  of  him  is  human 

In  rhythm  he  has  wrought, 

And  against  the  song  of  all  Creation 

Circles  the  song  of  Man. 


Ube  IFlew  (Bob 


VII 

'"THERE  is  a  golden  cloud  of  life 

Blowing : 

Through  flesh  it  blew  up  the  long  ages: 
Through  me  it  blows: 
It   is   a   cloud   with   wings:   it   is   even   Life,    the 

winged  .  .  . 

Like  a  bright  storm  that  cries  "Beyond!  Beyond!" 
It  hurried  the  hosts  of  bleeding  flesh  away  from 

their  slumbers, 

It  tore  them  up  from  backward  creeping, 
And  tears  on  graves,  and  clashing  wine-cups, 
Blowing  them  out  to  battle  in  the  creation  of  a  god. 

Lo,  now  the  golden  cloud  is  blowing, 
Through  me  it  blows : 
Though  I  lie  down,  it  lifts  me  up : 
Though  I  turn  back,  its  gale  sweeps  me  into  to 
morrow  : 

And  when  I  despair,  it  floods  me  with  such  radiance 
I  deny  the  dark,  and  hurry  on. 

166 


ZTbe  iaew  Gob 


VIII 

WHY  do  I  not  sink  down  with  unending  de 
spair? 

Yesterday  I  walked  the  Earth  like  the  shell  of  a  man : 
For  neither  in  the  world  was  good  nor  yet  in  my 
self  .  .  . 

Only  a  dark  fret  of  dead  days  flicked  me. 

Now  morning  breaks  with  rain, 
And  I  am  closed  like  a  withering  thing  in  gray- 
ness  .  .  . 
Why  do  I  not  sink  down  with  unending  despair*? 

Is  it  I  that  was  once  a  seed  and  shall  soon  be  dust? 
Is  not  life  two  silences  divided  by  one  brief  suf 
fering? 

The  two  ends  of  a  century  know  me  not : 
Unborn,  then  dead,  they  find  me  .  .  . 

Yet  do  I  not  sink  down  .  .  . 
For  life  is  a  golden  wind  of  wine, 
And  it  blows  through  me,  and  drunk  with  its  glory 
My  heart  forgets  the  dark. 

167 


IFlew 


IX 

MANY  shapes  has  my  god:  many  shapes  and 
strange  .  .  . 

Now  he  appears  in  the  likeness  of  a  sparrow 

Who  building  her  nest  in  honeysuckle  on  the  house- 
wall 

Hatches  three  fledglings  where  a  hand  could  touch 
her  ... 

And  how  he  is  a  child,  my  son,  with  arms  about 
my  neck, 

And  now  a  landscape  green  with  the  flat  radiance 
of  evening, 

And  now  a  song  I  put  my  soul  into, 

And  mostly,  he  is  a  certain  woman 

For  the  adoration  of  whom  I  willingly  kneel. 

There  where  I  put  my  love,  I  put  my  life, 

And  whatso  I  touch  with  fingers  of  love 

Turns  into  life, 

And  whatso  I  passionately  embrace  becomes  the  self 

I  would  be, 

And  where  there  is  love  there  is  God. 

168 


Slums 


SLUMS 

I N  the  dusty  glare  of  a  humid  morning, 

*     The  slow  horse-trucks  get  in  each  other's  way, 

The  drivers  lash  and  curse, 

The  rough-paved  streets  are  sticky  with  flies, 

The  hucksters  shout,  the  fat  dirty  women  scream  in 

their  crabbed  bargainings : 
Filth  shoves  against  filth,  and  crying  children  are 

yanked  by  the  arm  and  told  to  "Shut  up !" 

One  sees  too  the  swindle  of  housing: 

Vast  populations  are  broom-swept  into  this  industrial 

devastation : 

Lying  tissues  of  plaster,  brick  and  wood  .  .  . 
And  this  acreage  swarms  with  neglect  .  .  . 

The  factories  vomit  their  poisonous  smokes  in  the 

very  faces  of  the  people: 
Dirt  lies  where  it  fell:  the  forlorn  smoke-blackened 

trees  shrivel  and  wither : 
And  at  dawn,  in  the  refuse  heaps,  one  sees  mangy 

dogs  like  jackals  nosing  for  morsels  .  .  . 
169 


Slums 


Yes,  humanity  in  the  gross  is  ugly,  dirty  and  ab 
horrent: 

War  almost  seems  as  a  necessary  cleansing  of  this 
abscess : 

As  if  Earth  had  a  carbuncle  on  her  smooth  and  beau 
tiful  flesh. 

Among  all  the  animals,  man  is  the  dirtiest  and  cheap 
est  and  ugliest: 

Even  a  coyote  has  bright  burning  eyes,  lithe  health 
and  a  clean  fur : 

Even  a  hog  is  enamoured  of  sunshine  and  has  a  rock- 
strong  natural  huskiness: 

What  have  we  done  with  ourselves,  we  of  the  race 
of  Ulysses,  David  and  Roland, 

That  thus  in  the  mass,  we  appear  such  rubbish  and 
refuse? 


170 


H  "CCltse  TKftoman 


A  WISE  WOMAN 

SHE  putteth  victory  into  the  heart : 
She  giveth  to  the  groping  one  a  radiant  laughter 

as  a  lance  against  despair: 

She  biddeth  the  feet  of  the  sorrower  dance,  that  his 
soul  may  exult. 

With  sudden  sunrise  she  illumines  the  dark  face  of 

failure : 
And  with  scorn  and  ridicule  stings  to  vividness  the 

dead  heart: 
With  defiance  she  challenges  the  inert,  and  with 

cleansing  blade  of  truth  she  removes  twilight. 

She  giveth  healing,  O  woman  of  gentle  hands: 

And  understanding  is  the  ray  of  her  eye  when  it  looks 

on  the  mourner: 
With  quick  smiles  she  enfoldeth  one,  and  with  sweet 

humor  she  sootheth  the  ruffled. 


171 


H  TKltse  TOoman 


She  does  not  lack  the  whimsical  waywardness  of  a 

woman : 
It  delighteth  a  man's  soul,  and  he  would  serve  her 

willingly : 
Nor  is  she  too  wise  to  be  teachable,  but  listens  with 

attentive  spirit. 

Because  this  woman  has  lived  every  life  that  a 

woman  may  live, 
And  been  down  through  pits  of  pain  and  agony  and 

up  on  the  heights  of  rejoicing, 
She  scorns  none,  and  condemns  none:  her  task  is 

understanding  .  .  . 
To  her  may  be  told  the  most  terrible  secret  and  the 

dingiest  sin: 
She  knoweth  ere  one  has  spoken. 

Where  she  dwells:  there  is  quietness  and  low  laugh 
ter: 

One  may  almost  forget  that  she  sits  in  the  heart  of 
the  storm, 

And  is  the  wielder  of  a  sword  in  the  combats  of  the 
human  heart. 


172 


B  TKntse  Woman 


Her  name  is  Mother: 

To  her  run  the  little  children  and  the  larger  children 

also: 
There  they  find  wisdom  and  high  courage,  and  the 

hand  of  healing: 
For  she  putteth  victory  into  the  heart. 


173 


tbe  JSell 


UNDER  THE  BELL 

\fESTERDAY  my  body  was  in  the  place  that 

glorifies  man, 

Yesterday  my  body  was  in  the  city  .  .  . 
In  tumult  I  walked:  and  I  was  as  a  ball  thrown 

about — 
Flesh  of  me  chasing  through  crowded  streets,  shot 

like  a  bolt  by  subway  train. 
Drenched  in  electric  lights  of  night:  deafened  with 

gaudy  music  and  clamorous  tongues — 
But  all  was  Man,  Man,  Man  .  .  . 

To-day  my  body  is  in  the  place  that  belittles  Man : 

My  ears  are  muffled  in  the  silence  of  the  hills : 

It  is  as  if  my  eyes  had  mowed  down  skyscrapers  and 

cleaned  away  the  distance: 
And  at  night  like  a  fly  under  a  glass  bell, 
I  crawl,  star-stunned. 


174 


JOTTINGS 

PORTRAIT  OF  AN  INVESTIGATOR 
OF  VICE 

T  TIS  nails  were  perfect: 

*•**    They  were  well-trimmed^  shining  and  regular 
But  under  each  was  a  spot  of  dark  dirt. 

In  those  nails  I  saw  the  man. 


THE  MORTAL 

T  OVE  sings  that  he  is  deathless — 
*-^  Then  dies. 


175 


Jottings 


TO  BE  A  GOD 

nPO  be  a  god 

First  I  must  be  a  god-maker: 
We  are  what  we  create. 


FERTILIZER 

HE  dead  fertilize  the  living: 
Any  garden  will  tell  you  that. 

Ah,  friend,  you  and  I  have  a  neat  job  for  us  ahead. 


AND  THE  GREATEST  OF  THESE? 

TNDERSTANDING—not  faith. 
Will — not  hope. 

Service — not  charity. 


Jottings 


A  PICTURE  OF  CIVILIZATION 
T  TNDER  every  roof,  a  storm. 


A  GLANCE  FROM  THE  STREET 

ONE  upon  whom  silence  had  descended 
Lay  stiff  behind  the  shaded  windows. 

When,  too,  shall  I 

Lie  stiff  and  strange,  unknown  even  to  myself? 


THEY  OF  OLD 

of  old  washed  the  feet  of  the  traveler, 
And  thus  the  stranger  changed  to  a  friend. 


* 


177 


Ube  THucipeneft  OU> 


THE  UNRIPENED  OLD 


YfOUTH  fears  death, 


For  the  blossom  longs  to  be  fruit. 


But  the  fruit  that  is  ripened  by  age 
Loves  Autumn's  west  wind 
And  laughs,  falling  .  .  . 

Only  the  unripened  old  fear  to  go. 


178 


Ube 


THE  WINE-BOWL 

FRAY'S  wine-bowl  runs  over 

*-^  And  the  flood  of  the  spilt  wine  carries 

The  sun  across  its  hill-brim. 

Every  mute  color  opens  its  lips  and  shouts: 

Behold,  I  am  scarlet,  see,  I  am  blue, 

Nay,  I  am  green  .  .  . 

Every  hushed  bird  must  open  its  throat: 

Every  heart-vault  must  swing  back  its  steel-barred 

doors 
And  nil  with  the  float  of  the  sun-down  splendor. 


179 


f n  tbe  jfurnisbefc  1Room  Douse 


IN  THE  FURNISHED  ROOM  HOUSE 

CULL  moons  in  the  mist  of  the  bough-hung  park, 
•*•     And   a   wan   glimmer   on   the   ceiling  of   my 
room  .  .  . 

I  lie,  staring  upward  .  .  . 

Above  the  ceiling  a  woman  is  moving  timidly  to  and 

fro  ... 

And  above  the  woman,  the  mist-filled  sky, 
And   above   the   sky,   the  stars   beyond  our   trou- 

blings  .  .  . 

The  stars  are  not  farther  from  me 
Than  you,  so  timidly  stirring. 


180 


In  tbe  Subway 


IN  THE  SUBWAY 

AT  any  moment  arms  may  go  out  to  me : 
So  many  friendly  eyes  meet  mine  among  the 
millions  of  the  city. 

I  stood  on  the  subway  platform : 

The  conductor  kept  the  door  open  an  extra  moment 

for  two  old  helpless  women : 
He  and  I  saw  each  other,  and  knew  we  both  knew, 

and  smiled  and  nodded. 


181 


ZTbe  3Bu0le  Call 


THE  BUGLE  CALL 

SUNRISE  strikes  with  three  rays,  calling  me  from 
my  bed  ... 

My  westward  open  shutter  flashes,  and  the  dirty  cur 
tain  fills  with  gold : 
Across  the  Park  the  eastern  flank  of  the  granite  Arch 

shines  white: 

And  afar  the  tip  of  the  topmost  tower  glints  golden 
in  the  sky. 


182 


Sbtne,  Xtgbts  o'  Xonfcon 


SHINE,  LIGHTS  O'  LONDON 

CHINE,  lights  o'  London,  far: 

^  And  beat,  O  bells,  in  the  sombre  air  of  midnight : 

My  love  's  not  by  ... 

She  's  far  away  among  the  Alpine  passes, 

Brooding,  awake,  on  me, 

And  I  'm  in  my  little  room  in  London, 

With  beating  bells, 

And  the  women  walking  late  where  the  men  are 

passing, 

And  five  point  crossings  lit  with  lamps  and  empty, 
And  the  rushing  sound  o'  London  .  .  . 

O  bells  and  lights — 

My  heart 's  heavier,  heavier  now  than  ever — 
My  love  's  not  by  ... 

She  's  far  away  among  the  midnight  mountains, 
Pale,  parted  from  me, 
And  I  'm  in  my  little  room  in  London, 
With  grinding  wheels, 

And  the  poor  lying  dumb  on  the  embankments, 
And  the  girls  stealing  bold  along  the  pavements, 
And  the  drowning  sound  o'  London. 

183 


SutWGlp 


SUN-UP 

AT  sun-up, 

*~*  When  there  was  silence, 
From  the  sea  of  sleep  I  was  washed  to  the  shores  of 

day, 

And  opening  eyes, 

Unsurprised  I  found  the  familiar  city  about  me, 
The  long-known  Earth, 
The  morning  light  .  .  . 

Sweetened  with  slumber, 

Light  as  a  careless  child,  my  heart  laughing, 

I  tossed  the  covers  aside, 

And  bare-footed  I  strode  to  the  open  window, 

To  bathe  my  body  in  the  dawn  .  .  . 

Morning  was  fresh: 

Wheels  turned;  birds  sang  .  .  . 

A  smoke  went  up  from  chimneys  .  .  . 

And  suddenly  I  knew,  smelling  the  spring, 

That  the  Creator  was  at  work  .  .  . 


184 


Spring's  ©rcbestra 


SPRING'S  ORCHESTRA 

O  UDDENLY  Spring's  orchestra  tuned  up : 
^  Took  out  flute,  fife,  oboe,  horn  and  violin, 
And  began  to  scratch  and  whistle, 
Practising  on  love-songs  .  .  . 

There  came  the  darkness  before  dawn : 

Up  then  went  the  baton, 

A  streamer  of  light  reaching  the  zenith, 

And  there  burst  out  to  greet  the  rising  of  the  sun, 

Creation's  music, 

Creation's  love-music  .  .  . 

The  stage  was  drowned  in  electric  blue  radiance: 
Glisten  of  wet  leaves,  flash  of  plumage, 
Curl  of  blue  chimney  smoke, 
Sun  on  water  .  .  . 

And  the  drama? 

Too  old  to  be  other  than  what  humanity  longs 

for  ... 

185 


Spring's  ©rcfoestra 


All  about  a  pair  of  lovers 

Walking  in  the  dew 

And  in  the  green  and  gold  of  morning, 

Lost,  well  lost  to  the  world. 


186 


Ube  Btscorfc 


THE  DISCORD 

A  LL  goes  the  triumphant  way  but  Man : 
-**•  He  lends  to  the  landscape  a  calculating  brain, 
Figuring  his  crops, 

And  a  cynic  scowl,  dreading  his  fate  .  .  . 
In  the  year's  music  he  only  is  the  scratched  discord. 


187 


Hmong  Enemies 


AMONG  ENEMIES 

HOSTILITY  is  our  home, 
And  Struggle  our  native  heath  .  .  . 
The  harvest  that  nourishes  us  grows  from  the  black 

ground  of  agony, 
And  is  sprinkled  with  tears  .  .  . 
Loneliness  is  our  meat  and  bitter  is  our  wine  with 
calumny  and  disgrace  .  .  . 

Behold  the  world  we  are  set  in  ... 

It  is  a  marvel  that  we  survive  among  such  perils  .  .  . 

Between  flaming  and  freezing,  and  the  birth  and 
death  of  worlds, 

And  the  rolling  of  the  Earth  unsupported  save  by  in 
visible  threads  to  the  sun, 

Storm,  flood  and  cyclone :  and  our  sensitive  flesh 

That  dies  at  a  needle-prick  .  .  . 

A  million  powers  fight  about  us,  we  in  their  mesh : 
The  war  of  the  heavens  and  the  ceaseless  war  on 
Earth: 


188 


Bmon0  Enemies 


Germ  and  landslide :  beast  and  poison :  yea,  and  our 

kind: 

And  enemies  in  our  souls  .  .  . 
Our  own  shadows  are  struggling  with  us,  our  fears 

and  doubts. 

Yet  in  this  wasp-nest  of  life, 

Victoriously  the  generations  follow  each  other, 

And  you  and  I  pick  our  way:  warring,  aggressive, 

battered, 
Miracles  of  survival  .  .  . 


JBog 


THE  BOY 

A  BOY  sat  there  in  the  gleaming  summer : 
-**•  He  was  supposed  to  be  studying  under  the  maple 

tree: 
But  beyond  in  the  radiance  of  the  blooming  fields, 

he  saw  the  children  running, 

And  the  loveliness  and  dazzle  and  bee-murmur  of 
summer  overwhelmed  him. 

He  could  not  study:  he  did  not  know  what  he 

wanted : 
He  yearned  somehow  to  embrace  the  sky  and  the 

earth : 
He  yearned  for  love:  some  warm  sweet  girl's  face 

deep  in  the  hay: 
He  sat  there,  a  prisoner,   with  shining  eyes,   and 

parted  lips. 

Not  knowing  what  he  wanted,  he  became  sullen  and 

shy: 

He  crossed  his  mother,  and  fought  with  her : 
And  dulled  his  desires  in  a  headache  . 


190 


Dangerous 


DANGEROUS  DAYS 

PVANGEROUS  days, 

J— '  When  the  lasso  of  my  leaping  life, 
Seeking  forever  for  that  which  it  may  coil  about, 
Finds  nothing  in  the  future,  nothing  in  the  day, 
And    flings    backward    to    some    memory    of    the 
past  .  .  . 

Round  this  it  winds, 

Dragging  it  forth,  a  glitter  and  temptation  marvel 
ous  to  see: 
And  thus,  the  peril  .  .  . 

Yea,  these  are  dangerous  days : 

I  must  go  invent  new  battles  for  my  soul. 


191 


Ctrl  on  tbe  Street 


GIRL  ON  THE  STREET 

OU  are  so  young,  you  go  so  visibly  longing : 
Your  attire  the  plumage  of  the  love-seeker,  your 

face  with  the  beauty  of  wistfulness: 
What  do  you  seek? 

Ah,  we  all  seek: 

But  whatever  it  is  we  seek,  that  we  shall  never 
find  .  .  . 

Poor  child! 

You  have  yet  to  learn  that  joy  comes  from  the  by 
products  .  .  . 
Never  from  the  main  attainment. 


192 


In  THHbat  BMaces  Hpart 


IN  WHAT  PLACES  APART 

YEA,  thought  I,  in  what  places  apart, 
The  inventor  is  at  work, 
The  architect  draughts  his  design, 
The  teacher  of  children  leans  to  the  small-sized  needs 

and  dreams  of  the  young, 
The  artist  shapes  symbols  of  future  life, 
Intense  in  laboratories  the  patient  searches  continue, 
Women  carry  the  unborn. 


193 


Bfcventures  in  Barfcness 


ADVENTURES  IN  DARKNESS 


ACCEPTING  THE  WORST 

DEADER, 

*  ^  If  this  happens  to  be  the  hour  when  you  are 

drunk, 

Whether  with  love,  success  or  wine, 
Or  excess  of  good  health, 

Nevertheless,  for  the  sake  of  the  facts,  agree  to  this 
with  me : 


Life  is  essentially  bitter: 

Nothing  turns  out  as  we  dreamed  and  desired: 

We  know  little,  but  are  pulled  through  one  tunnel 

of  emotion  after  another: 
Behind  joy  is  pain,  behind  love  is  hate,  behind  life 

is  death : 

All  things  are  taken  from  us,  sooner  or  later, 
And  in  the  end,  stripped,  we  are  cast  aside. 


194 


Bfcventures  in  Barfenesa 


Your  best  friend:  how  much  do  you  trust  him"? 

Your  deepest  faith:  how  often  do  you  doubt  it*? 

What  have  you  gained  compared  with  what  you  de 
sire? 

Has  that  moment  never  come  to  you  when  you  cursed 
the  fate  that  made  you  a  man*? 

Daily  we  read  of  atrocious  happenings : 

And  even  when  man  is  not  cruel  to  man,  man  is  cruel 

to  himself  .  .  . 
Much  of  darkness  is  self-begotten  .  .  . 

It  is  a  strange  fate  that  has  made  us  an  animal, 

And  yet  at  war  with  the  animal  in  ourselves  .  .  . 

"Conquer  your  beast,"  has  been  a  commandment  in 
every  creed  .  .  . 

It  is  our  destiny  then  to  overcome  what  we  are, 

And  to  be  something  we  have  never  known  in  Na 
ture  .  .  . 

The  bees  and  the  lions,  the  sun  maneuvering  in 
heaven — no,  neither  the  chemic  nor  the  quick, 

Nothing  we  know  makes  this  effort. 


195 


Boventures  tn  Barfeness 


It  is  as  if  Man  has  to  lift  himself  by  his  own  boot 
straps, 
Up,  a  little  above  the  Universe  .  .  .  and  why? 

There  is  a  great  pother  of  scientists,  philosophers, 

divines  and  poets 
Telling  us  with  gravity,  why  .  .  . 
If  they  did  not  all  contradict  each  other,  you  and  I 

might  achieve  more  faith  .  .  . 

We  only  know  this  necessity  of  being  other  than  we 

are  ... 
And  as  this  is  a  task  the  incommensurable  Universe 

has  evidently  not  attained, 
It  is  small  wonder  that  we  are  disappointed  in  life 

and  ourselves  .  .  . 

Small  wonder  that  life  is  essentially  bitter, 
That  nothing  turns  out  as  we  dreamed  or  desired, 
And  that  death,  and  sometimes  birth,  seem  a  wilful 

wickedness :  as  a  spite,  even,  working  out  against 

us  ... 

Are  these  the  facts?  are  they  accepted? 

Then,  having  cleaned  the  ground  of  much  rubbish, 

we  can  take  to  our  hearts  this  comfort : 
To  accept  the  worst,  is  to  become  free  of  the  worst. 

196 


Bfcventures  in  Barfcness 


II 

MAN,  THE  WONDERFUL 

AN  is  beyond  doubt  the  wonderful : 
His,  among  several  hundred  million  worlds,  is 
a  unique  fate. 


M 


The  tail  of  the  monstrous  Universe,  with  that  tiny 

nub,  the  Earth,  at  the  tip  of  it, 
Restlessly  slaps  back  and  forth  in  ellipses  about  the 

sun  .  .  . 

And  on  the  tail  an  immense  process  of  parasitism 
Has  begotten  at  last  that  curio,  Man, 
Namely  you  and  me  ... 

Here  we  are  .  .  . 

Caring  little  that  we  are  the  tip  of  the  tail  of  a  sky- 
monster, 

A  star-bellied  dragon, 

Caring  far  more  whether  a  starched  collar  fits  coolly 
about  the  neck, 

Or  whether  we  see  our  names  in  print, 

Or  expect  to  meet  a  certain  woman  an  hour  before 

dinner  .  .  . 

197 


Bfcventures  in  E>arfcness 


And  yet  we  cannot  quite  clear  ourselves  from  the 
Universe  .  .  . 

It  haunts  us  like  a  fitful  and  intermittent  ghost  .  .  . 

There  is  perpetual  background  of  gross  chasmic  pur 
poses,  primal  forces,  and  monstrous  fates  .  .  . 

Now  and  then  the  event  faces  us  with  our  situa 
tion  .  .  . 

As  sickness,  as  birth  of  a  child,  as  sudden-taking 
death  .  .  . 

Then  we  are  sharply  aware  of  the  mystery  of  flesh : 
Of  our  perishable  form,  and  the  blood  of  self  to  be 

spilt, 
And  the  even  more  strange  ego,  the  "I"  so  apart  from 

Creation,  back-gazing  upon  it, 
And  the  uniqueness  of  Man  .  .  . 

Did  the  mountain  labor  and  bring  forth  a  mouse*? 

That  is  nothing  .  .  . 

Creation — of  the  size  of  which  the  heavens  by  night 
give  us  but  the  index  and  the  table  of  con 
tents — 

Labored  and  brought  forth  Man  .  .  . 


Bfcx>entures  in  Barfeness 


We   feel   back  to  it,   and  know  it  dimly  as  the 

Mother  .  .  . 
Even  so  a  child  in  the  womb  might  feel  through  the 

cord  to  the  vastness  that  is  enfolding  it, 
And  the  woman  that  is  begetting  it  ... 
But  what  does  the  sleeping  embryo  know  of  the 

mother,  or  of  the  purpose  of  its  own  dark  growth 

in  the  womb? 

Nevertheless  we  reason  about  it: 

We  investigate  it,  and  tabulate  the  results  .  .  . 

We  look  in  vain  either  through  telescope  or  micro 
scope  to  find  any  other  creatures  that  wear  neck 
ties  or  spectacles, 

We  see  nothing  in  Nature  in  any  way  resembling  a 
ship's  compass  or  French  pastry, 

We  search  vainly  through  the  Earth  for  anything 
comparable  to  a  system  of  philosophy, 

Or  a  book  of  dream  analysis  .  .  . 

We   end   where   we   began:  by  noting  how   won- 

drously  unique  we  are, 
How  curiously  different  from  that  which  begot  us. 


199 


Hfcventures  in  Darfeness 


III 

BE  OTHER  THAN  YOU  ARE 

IT  is  we  who  are  this  creature,  Man: 
*     It  is  we :  there  's  the  wonder  of  it ! 

It  is  you,  it  is  I  myself,  who  have  come  to  be  alive  in 
a  body  not  a  bit  different  from  all  bodies, 

But  in  a  consciousness  strangely  different  from  all 
other  consciousness  .  .  . 

By  their  fruits,  shall  ye  know  them  .  .  . 

What  consciousness,  other  than  Man's,  has  begotten 

a  daily  newspaper,  a  mysterious  religion,  a  pack 

of  playing  cards^ 

Why  in  all  the  sameness,  is  this  difference  1 

How  comes  it  that  I  use  words,  woven  in  rhythms, 

and  you  understand  the  words'? 
That  I  sit  smoking  a  cigar,  at  a  four-legged  table  of 

painted  wood,  beside  a  glass  window, 
Trying  to  worry  large  vague  thoughts  into  sharp 

concrete  shape, 

200 


Bfcventures  in  H>arfenes0 


Trying  to  communicate  with  you,  whom  I  do  not 
know,  who  may  dwell  on  the  other  side  of  this 
planet, 

And  never  see  this  until  I  am  dead*? 

Surely  such  a  play  goes  on  neither  in  the  sun  nor  in 
Arcturus, 

Nor  among  the  animals  of  the  Earth  .  .  . 

It  is  as  if,  Be  other  than  you  are,  were  a  command 
ment  laid  upon  us  ... 

For  to  be  what  we  are  would  be  to  remain  larger- 
sized  babies  .  .  . 

The  nakedest  animal  of  the  Earth  .  .  . 

Whereas  we  are  nothing  of  the  sort:  we  are  human 
beings. 


201 


Btwentures  in  Bareness 


IV 

SCIENCES,  PHILOSOPHIES,  RELIGIONS 


see,  each  is  but  a  tiny  cup  that  has  scooped 
up  a  bit  of  the  Universe, 
Little   picture    frames,   perhaps,    laid   against   the 

skies  ... 
But  the  heavens  are  infinite  .  .  . 

Each  is  true  in  itself, 

And  useful  for  its  own  purpose  .  .  . 

But  Life  is  still  vast,  uncaught,  untamed  and  im 

measurable  .  .  . 
You  can  go  freely  on,  knowing  that  having  mastered 

every  Science, 
Digested  each  new  theory,  taken  to  yourself  every 

dogma, 

The  Unknown  is  greater  than  the  Known, 
And  probably  the  world  is  quite  different  from  the 

conception  of  the  human  brain  .  .  . 

Only  this  is  sure:  Mystery  .  .  . 

And  embedded  in  Mystery  that  greater  mystery  : 

Self. 

202 


fl&arcb 


MARCH  NIGHT 

T  SHOOK  off  the  house  like  a  hooded  cape, 
*     And  came  out,  free,  into  the  March-blown  street. 
The  Park  was  a  square  basin,  deep  in  red  brick  walls, 
filling  with  evening. 

At  a  lash  of  the  gale,  at  a  sight  of  the  cloud-tattered 
skies, 

As  a  coat  discarded, 

I  shook  off  civilization 

And  became  wild, 

And  my  naked  soul  raced  the  clouds, 

And  the  flavor  of  the  Earth  was  fresh  and  primi 
tive  .  .  . 

Who  then  was  she  that  opened  like  a  blossom  beside 

me  in  the  night, 
Grew  vivid  and  vanished? 

The  darkness  of  her  eyes  gleamed  with  fierce  secret 

fires: 
She  came  from  what  desert? 

203 


/iDarcb 


The  light  in  a  window  sent  out  a  hint  of  romance : 
The  laborers  returning  home  were  gnomes  out  of 

caverns : 
And  who  was  she  that  opened  like  a  blossom  beside 

me  in  the  night, 
Grew  vivid  and  vanished? 


204 


peace 


PEACE 
I  HAVE  chosen:  there  is  peace  .  .  . 

Long  I  wrestled:  that  was  war  .  .  . 

Long  I  struggled  between  many  courses,  timid  and 

baffled: 
Now  I  have  chosen :  peace  has  come  .  .  . 

I  may  be  unwise,  I  may  be  wrong: 
That  I  have  chosen  may  lead  to  the  gate  of  destruc 
tion: 
All  the  great  work  may  go  down. 

But  now  the  fragments  of  me,  each  one  pushing  his 

own  way, 

Rush  together  in  binding  union, 
And  in  one  rhythm, 
And  to  one  music 
I  march,  one  man : 

Here  is  strength,  and  here  is  calmness: 
I  have  chosen :  peace  has  come. 


205 


GOLDEN  DEATH 


(Bolben  Deatb 


GOLDEN  DEATH 


A  LAS !    that    what    I   hold    in    my    arms   shall 
-**•       crumble, 

That  these  lips  shall  fall  into  dust, 
And  these  eyes  gaze  no  more! 
Where  shall  I  look  for  my  darling  and  my  adored 

one, 

O  beautiful  beloved, 
When  no  youth  remembers  her, 
And  only  my  heart  forgets  not? 

Only  this :  that  I  too,  I  too  shall  die  ... 


Merciless  surge  of  time,  who  on  thy  tide  has  strewed 

us? 

Why  are  we  scattered  in  scenes  of  Earth? 
To  the  brief  and  vivid  awakening 
The  Irresistible  forced  us, 
To  love  and  the  bonds  of  love  ...  to  love  and  the 

loss  of  love  .  .  . 

209 


<5oU>en  2>eatb 


In  thy  dark  hosts  of  numberless  children,  O  Earth, 
she  blossomed, 

Ah,  no  less  than  the  least  sweet  trailing  honey 
suckle, 

And  though  she  was  hidden,  I  found  her, 

And  though  she  was  lost,  I  came  on  her  ... 

How  shall  I  unhand  her  to  thee,  O  Death? 

0  how  release  her? 

3 

She  showed  me  a  lock  of  her  golden  hair  saved  out 

of  youth, 
But  she  showed  me  not  the  golden-haired  girl  who 

lived  so  ardently  .  .  . 
Ah,  where  has  that  other  gone,  and  where  shall  this 

one  go? 

4 

1  catch  her  in  embraces, 

I  hold  her  close  and  closer  .  .  . 

God!  could  I  take  her  in  my  soul  and  be  one  with 

her: 

A  single  dreaming,  and  a  single  passion, 
And  but  one  dying  .  .  . 

210 


Gotten  H)eatb 


5 

But  the  west  wind  sings  of  separation  and  scatter 
ing- 
Death  is  abroad,  taking  the  year, 
Death  is  abroad,  stealing  the  hours  .  .  . 
The  shutters  clatter,  and  the  maples  sing  like  the 

sea  .  .  . 

I  will  go  out  and  give  myself  to  the  ruining, 
Side  by  side  with  the  bleak  Destroyer  .  .  . 


Sunbursts  through  leaves,  wild  geese, 
The  grass  like  hair  blown  backward, 
What  can  it  mean*? 

Why  are  you  not  black,  O  leaves'? 

Why  do  you  sing  no  dirges,  O  wind  in  the  woods'? 

But  hark,  what  clarions?  what  trumpets'? 

What  glimpses  of  grape-stained  faces, 

What  dancing  of  dripping  feet? 

Can  it  be,  my  heart,  can  it  be, 

That  hugged  in  the  arms  of  unconquered  Death 

Golden  October  glories'? 


211 


Oolfcen  Deatb 


She  glories :  she  goes  out  in  shouts  of  color : 
Woodland  with  woodland  take  hands 
Dancing  mad  Bacchanals  .  .  . 
The  plum  is  squeezed,  and  the  apple  is  pressed, 
The  grapes  are  trampled  .  .  . 
Wine !  wine !  the  west  wind  sings,  flinging  long  gar 
lands  of  leaves. 

And  the  year  that  has  greatly  lived,  goes  laughing 

to  death  .  .  . 
She  slays  herself  with  the  bright  blade  of  the  west 

wind, 

And  with  glittering  arrows  of  the  frost. 
She  decks  herself  for  the  burial,  in  no  funereal  black, 
But  in  royal  crimson  and  gold  .  .  . 
Her  leaves  fall  with  a  will  .  .  . 
The  air  is  winey  and  brilliant  .  .  . 

O  sinks  not  the  sun  in  splendor, 
His  down-going  the  glory  of  the  day? 
So  sinks  the  year,  with  sunset  colors,  into  the  even 
ing  of  winter, 
Triumphant  in  defeat, 
Victorious  in  death  . 


212 


(Bol&en  Deatb 


7 

I  am  filled  with  the  will  of  the  Earth, 

And  the  will  of  the  sun  .  .  . 

I  have  found  the  answer  to  Time, 

I  have  found  the  answer  to  Death  .  .  . 

Come  with  me,  Beloved,  and  put  on  raiment  of  joy, 

The  sun  clothe  us,  and  rain  be  on  our  lips, 

And  the  blood  of  the  fleet  year  be  in  our  hearts. 

Love  overflows  the  perishing  flesh, 

Never  a  secret  sorrow  is  thine,  but  behold,  I  am  sor 
rowful, 

Never  a  joy  is  locked  in  thy  heart,  but  I  suddenly 
laugh. 

We  are  one :  let  us  live  to  the  full : 

Let  us  go  as  the  year  .  .  . 

Let  us  put  forth  flower  and  fruit  to  the  uttermost 

strength, 

Spend,  spend  inexhaustible  love, 
Till  spent  we  seek  sleep, 
And  having  lived  greatly 
Go  laughing  to  death. 

213 


ZTbe  ffuture 


THE  FUTURE 

T  AROSE  swiftly  that  night,  for  I  heard  a  knock 
*•        at  my  door. 
11  Who's  that?"  I  asked. 
And  there  answered  one  on  the  outside: 
"The  Future." 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  asked. 
"Your  life"  he  said,  "your  service,  your  agonies  of 

toiling  .  .  . 
I  demand  all." 

"And  what  is  the  pay?"  I  asked. 
"Death  .  .  ." 

We  two  were  silent:  the  snow  fell  in  the  streets: 
The  night  was  still  .  .  . 
"And  is  that  all?"  I  asked. 
"Yes,  that  is  all  .  .  ." 
"And  who  shall  gain  by  my  travail?" 
He  did  not  answer:  I  started  out. 


215 


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